


We Have the Strangest Ways

by Miniatures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 25 Day Holiday OTP Challenge, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Gabriel/Sam Winchester, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Sabriel's the focus but have some Destiel too because Destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miniatures/pseuds/Miniatures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel takes some time off for the holidays, Sam wants more out of his heavenly relationship, and Dean and Cas are sick of their crap. (Or: I do a 25 Day Christmas-themed OTP challenge. Time for a bunker Christmas, y'all!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decorations

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts taken from http://cypress-tree.tumblr.com/post/36866885886/christmas-otp-challenge
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics of "Thank God it's Christmas" by Queen

Sam shouldn’t have been surprised. This was par for the course for the archangel, after all. Appeared from nothing—because he certainly hadn’t been there when Sam had gone to bed—and rooting around in Sam’s closet, mounds of discarded flannel and denim forming on the floor behind him.

“Gabriel?” Sam mumbled, blinking bleary green at the shadowy curve of ass and stubby bowlegs. “Gabriel, what the hell?”

The archangel didn’t so much as turn. “November’s over,” he said, and Sam wasn’t sure whether he was still half asleep or if that really made as little sense as it seemed to.

“It’s…” he checked the alarm clock, numbers blazing in garish and unforgiving red neon. “Three AM. The hell couldn’t wait ‘til later?”

Gabriel emerged from the closet and stood, and even robed in dark he seemed to be glowing. Or maybe Sam was imagining it.

“Christmas decorations, Sambo, where are they?”

“Wha…?”

“It’s already the first, and I haven’t seen _one_ ornament. Where’d you stash the tinsel, kiddo?”

Sam fell back on the pillow, shimmied under the covers. “Nofckn ornmnts… never had ‘em…”

“You’re kidding. Seriously?”  

But Sam was already asleep.

—

When he woke, it was to the soft, warm press of a body at his back.

“Mmm,” he smiled, inhaled deep, turned to face the archangel. Short fingers found the curve of his jaw and pulled him into a slow kiss. “Mornin’, Gabe.”

This happened sometimes. He’d wake and find Gabriel tucked against him, or conjuring a seven course breakfast in the kitchen, or lounging in some other corner of the bunker, waiting for Sam to come across him. Being an archangel, even a flaky one, was a full-time job nowadays, and Gabriel stole what moments he could.

They didn’t have a name for what they were, didn’t want to label themselves. Correction: _Gabriel_ didn’t want to label them. But the fact remained that they were something, and Sam loved it, and as such he was willing to take what he could get. Even if he wanted more.

Lazy kisses gave way to lazy morning handjobs and a hot, lazy shower. They emerged from Sam’s bedroom some two hours later, and the hunter stopped dead when he saw the state of the rest of the bunker.

The entire hall was decked in literal boughs of fucking holly.

“Gabriel…?”

The archangel grinned like a giddy child. “You said you didn’t have any decorations, and that was obviously unacceptable, sooo... I improvised.”

Sam only gaped. “Uhh…”

Gabriel’s smile widened. He twined his fingers with Sam’s and began to drag him down the hall. “C’mon, Gigantor, lemme show you around.”

Every room in the bunker was done up in the most lavish décor Sam had ever seen. Mostly natural, vaguely archaic things—mistletoe and pine, wreathes and wood carvings—and some more modern. Bows, popcorn strings, painted figurines, and ornamented trees in every room. Candelabras and multicoloured lights and one suspiciously authentic looking singing bass fish.

The final room Gabriel showed him was the library. The shelves were strung with gold tinsel. The fireplace was lit—had there been a fireplace before?—and hung with oversized red velvet stockings. On top of the mantel sat a giant snowglobe. Sam approached it and peered at the scene within: a frozen lake in the middle of a pine forest, people ice-fishing, skating, tossing snowballs at each other between the trees. They were all really moving, given life by angel magic.

“You like?”

Sam turned back to grin at Gabriel, who looked caught somewhere between smugness and earnest hope. “I mean,” he went on, “how can you not have Christmas decorations up when you’re banging a pagan angel? Me and Cronus used to _tear it up_ ‘round this time of year. Then it was all about Daddy’s Precious Mangerbaby and it took _forever_ before the winter ragers came back into vogue.” Gabriel let out a long sigh. “I do miss the orgies.”

Sam only smiled wider. “It’s incredible, Gabe. Though, ah, I can’t guarantee Dean won’t kill you when he sees what you’ve done to the weapons room.”

“Eh, I thought the glitter added a nice, festive touch,” Gabriel winked. Licked his lips, seemed to sober some. “Besides, I know you guys haven’t had a lot of… fun Christmases.”

“Thought you’d give us a break?”

“Hell, thought I’d give _myself_ one.” The archangel shrugged. “I may or may not have used some superjuice to hide myself from the other angels for a bit. I’m all yours until further notice, Sammy.”

Sam lunged forward and gathered the smaller man in a tight hug.

“I wanted them to be yours,” Gabriel murmured. “Sentimental shit, y’know? But you didn’t have any.”

“They’re perfect.”

“Mm.” Gabriel nuzzled his collarbone, and Sam felt the curve of his lips against his skin. “You know, there was one ritual the pagans _loved_ to do to appease me at Christmas. It involved sending the sexiest person in the village to my shrine with a casket of ironically virgin olive oil—”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Come on! Ancient Pagan Sex Ritual! I thought you’d be into that, ya big nerd.”

Sam kissed the top of Gabriel’s head and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've done an OTP challenge of any kind, and it's SO much fun! And since the pieces do have a continuous story, I thought I'd post 'em here as an ongoing fic for the month!
> 
> (If any of y'all are reading Before the Gates of Heaven, by the by, don't worry, I'm still working on it. Chapter 7 was stalled by the last couple of weeks of classes, because essays and exams kinda burned me out, but I'm back on that horse now!)


	2. Christmas Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel doesn't know how to apologize.

Dean was, indeed, itching to kill Gabriel when he found his now-sparkling arsenal.

“He’s a goddamn child,” he informed Sam, tossing a bedazzled knife at his brother’s feet. “If he wasn’t your boyfriend I’d have his wings mounted on the wall already.”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Sam muttered, and it stung to say. “And hey, c’mon, doesn’t the bunker look great?”

Dean dropped his eyes, mouth twitching. “Looks like a freakin’ Christmas card exploded,” he mumbled.

Sam grinned. And if he later happened to catch his older brother fingering the petals of a poinsettia with a smile, he didn’t say anything.

Still, he felt bad about the weapons. He felt bad, and the decorated bunker was stirring in him some latent, culturally ingrained desire to do good by Dean. He blamed Gabriel for getting him in the mood—and wasn’t that a phrase he found himself using with increasing regularity. 

He found the archangel in the kitchen, plating an elaborate array of gingerbread men. They smelled freshly baked, though Sam knew that they must’ve been conjured. The scent, warm and thick and nutty, enveloped him. Nudged pieces of nostalgia deep in his brain, nostalgia that didn’t belong to him—it was comfy sweaters and hot cocoa by the fire and snow settling on the outer panes of insulated windows. Sam’s Christmases were spiked eggnog, blood, and slush soaked socks. This gingerbread smell, the decorations, Gabriel… it was more than he’d ever hoped to have and then some.

Gabriel looked up at him and smiled. Smiled wider when he saw Sam swallow hard round the lump in his throat.

“Damn, Sasquatch, I know I look good, but there’s no need to get all emotional about it.” He flitted to Sam’s side, anchored the taller man with firm hands on his hips. Kissed him quick but kissed him hard. Growled: “I know you had your fill last night, but… wanna eat a dude?” He lifted a hand and snapped a gingerbread man into the flat of his palm with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Sam snorted. “I want you,” he said, “to apologize to Dean.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Oh, come _on,_ Sam, you can’t just ignore wordplay that dirty. I worked _hard_ on it.”

“You’re a comic genius. Apologize to Dean, please.”

The archangel took a small step back, narrowed his gaze so slightly Sam almost didn’t notice. “And why should I do that?”

He knew that _because I asked you to_ wouldn’t be enough, even though he wished it were. Gabriel had that look in his eye, that glint of Impossibly Vast Ethereal Being that only seemed to appear when he was being defiant. Archangels didn’t have to apologize. Archangels raised as gods with a nebulous moral compass _definitely_ didn’t have to apologize.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Hey, you said you wanted me to have a fun Christmas, right? You know what’d be fun? If Dean didn’t want to kill my—kill you.” 

Gabriel pursed his lips, and the iron faded some. “Hm. I s’pose I could be so persuaded…” He swaggered forward, tucked his thumbs through the beltloops of Sam’s jeans and tugged the hunter’s hips flush against his. “Tell ya what: I’ll even keep it festive. How ‘bout a Christmas card? Bit of an olive branch to keep him off my back while I get you on yours. How’s that?”

He ground slow against Sam, lips ghosting over the taller man’s throat. “Hmm? Sound good, Sammy?”

Sam’s hands were splayed warm over Gabriel’s back, sparks were gathering in his belly, and he _really_ didn’t want to talk about Dean anymore. “Sure,” he gasped out, breath hitching as the plush of the archangel’s lips gave way to pressure and teeth. “Yeah, good idea.”

Then Gabriel’s fingers made their way under the waistband of his jeans and Sam forgot what they’d been talking about in the first place.

—

“Sam… what the hell is this?”

It was said without ire, pure confusion flitting over Dean’s features as he took in the object on the table before him. Sam, who had just been passing by the open door, stepped into the room and peered up. He stifled a laugh.

“Oh, shit, I forgot he was gonna do that.”

The card was three feet high and a foot across, made of thick, artfully yellowed paper. It was decorated in rich ink, an elaborately and abstractly designed Christmas tree, its ornaments flame and frost and stardust. Gold ink spelled out _Sorry, Dean_ in ornate calligraphy. Dean gaped, and Sam raised his eyebrows, impressed. For all that he’d essentially bribed Gabriel into it (his mouth still tasted of gingerbread) he had to admit that when the archangel _wanted_ to apologize, he did a damn fine job of it.

Dean shook his head. “I can’t believe he actually… Sam, you didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“It’s Gabriel. Would he have done this if I hadn’t?”

“Fair point.” Dean grinned and took the edge of the card in hand, pulling it open and—

And with an airy puff and trumpets blaring Handel’s _Messiah,_ Dean was covered head to toe in glitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will this actually have consequences? Survey says yes. 
> 
> Also, tsk, Gabe, I hope you snapped the kitchen clean afterwards.


	3. Fireside Snuggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is insecure, and Gabriel is sorry.

It was late, and Sam was pathetic.

After the glitter bomb had gone off, Gabriel had snapped into the room and laughed in Dean’s face. Dean, in turn, had gone from irate to murderous in seconds, and Sam had needed to get physical to break the two apart.

One hand fisted in Dean’s shirt, the other tight on Gabriel’s shoulder, he’d called for a ceasefire knowing there was none to be had. Dean had stalked off, taken a walk in December frost to clear his head. The archangel had only glared.

“You promised you’d make it better,” Sam said. “I just wanted some peace and fucking quiet ‘round here. For once.” _And for once, Gabriel, couldn’t you have listened to me?_

Something passed over Gabriel’s face, and then he was stone and vastness beneath an uncharacteristically blank expression. Sam hated when he did that. Went _angel_ on him.

“Why can’t you—” Sam began, but Gabriel was already gone.

Now it was late, and Sam was pathetic. It had only been an evening and yet he already missed the asshole.

He sat in an armchair in the library by the fireplace smoldering low, a weathered manuscript in hand. He’d been leafing through the Men of Letters’ archives for the past few hours, trying to keep his mind off his missing… whatever Gabriel was to him. It wasn’t working.

If he would’ve listened. If Sam could’ve been enough to make him _listen._

Gabriel was an archangel. He was powerful and unfathomable and though he played human very well, he was only playing. He did nothing that wasn’t done on his terms. And Sam could push, and Sam could pull, but archangels were not pliant creatures. To get him to bend would require nothing short of another apocalypse. Something more than Sam had to offer—and he would’ve offered all he had.

Sam placed the manuscript on his lap, rubbed his eyes. The light was dim and the type was small and he was lonely. And pitiful.

When he opened his eyes, the armchair had doubled into a loveseat, and the manuscript was gone.

“Don’t worry,” Gabriel said, stepping into view, “I shelved it.”

Sam blinked, sighed. “Look, Gabriel…”

The archangel held up his hands. “Ah, ah, ah. Let’s not turn this into a _thing,_ huh? Let’s just sit by the fire,” he snapped his fingers and the flames flickered high, “and then we can—”

“No.”

Gabriel stopped, stared. “What?”

“I said no.” Sam swallowed. “You promised you’d make it better with Dean and you _didn’t._ On purpose. That’s… that’s not okay.”

Gabriel laughed, though it was bitter. “Sam, I _know._ It was stupid. But c’mon, you can’t expect me to—”

“To what?” Sam asked. “To do something for me that I actually _ask_ for? You know better than anyone what it’s like when the people you care about are at each other’s throats. You can fucking _warp reality_ at will, but you can’t stop that?”

“I don’t have to do what you say,” Gabriel said. His tone was dark, and that glint of Impossibly Vast Ethereal Being had returned to his gaze.

Sam set his jaw, and from the way the archangel’s eyes flickered he knew he’d managed to look properly imposing. “No,” he said coldly. “You’re right. You don’t _have to_ do anything.”

Gabriel’s shoulders rose and fell, as if he were sighing deep. His expression fell, so slightly it would have been easy to miss if Sam hadn’t been watching for it. Hoping for it.

The archangel snapped his fingers and disappeared.

—

The fire was burning low again, and Sam was nodding off when a pop and the flutter of wings signaled Gabriel’s return. He gave a jolt, sat up and stared. Gabriel looked… out of breath. An odd thing for a being that didn’t need to breathe.

“The weapons are clean,” he said, words tumbling out in a quiet rush. “So’s Dean. He’s gonna wake up to pie a la mode and a brand new set of sigiled knives. Very rare shit. Side note, I may have angered a minor chaos god. Nothing I can’t handle, but… fair warning.”

Sam, fully awake now, propped himself up as Gabriel took a long stride towards him.

“You can check if you want,” he said. “Or. Y’know. We could do something else.”

A smile crept slow over Sam’s face. “Sex for favours? That how this works now?”

Gabriel’s hand flew to his chest. “What kind of girl d’you take me for?” He flopped down on the loveseat, curling warm against Sam. “This is fine. If you want it.”

Sam wrapped an arm around the archangel, pressed his lips to his temple. Gabriel snapped his fingers, and the fire bloomed once more. Mugs of hot cocoa—with marshmallows—materialized in their hands. For a long while they just sat there, tucked together and sinking into comfortable silence.

“You didn’t have to do all that.” Sam murmured, finally.

Gabriel looked at him, lips quirking. “I know.”

The hunter grinned and kissed him slow. Tasted affection and chocolate on his tongue. He’d been enough this time. He’d always been enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are so stupidly stubborn it kills me.


	4. Buying Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What DO you get for the archangel who has everything?

“No, Gabriel.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you to.”

“But why?”

Sam raised his eyebrows but didn’t otherwise answer. Didn’t look up from the book he was reading, an old tome about winter rites. (“It’s in there, Sam, I’m telling you. Ancient Pagan Sex Ritual.”)

Gabriel huffed, rolled his eyes. He pulled the book out of Sam’s hands, placed it down not-so gently. Sam gave a yelp and reached for it, but his path was blocked by the archangel now sitting crosslegged on the table before him. “C’mon. You really gonna deny me my God-given right to spoil you rotten?”

Sam smiled. “Yes, yes I am.”

“It’s _Christmas,_ Sambo, that’s what you’re _supposed_ to do!”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t mean as much if you can just… zap up the gifts.” He put his hands on Gabriel’s knees and stood, leaned forward to nibble at his earlobe. “You’ve gotta put some thought into it.” Let his fingers run up to the archangel’s thighs, rubbed his thumbs in teasing little circles just inches shy of his crotch. “Go and pick something out.” Gabriel shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut. Sam smirked and drew away.

Gabriel groaned and threw himself back, splayed spread-eagled on the table. “You drive a hard bargain, Winchester.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Fuck you. Yes.”

“Good.” Sam leaned over and gave Gabriel a pat on the belly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ve gotta do a grocery and gifts run.”

Gabriel lifted his head. “Take Dean with you.”

“… Why?”

His only response was an enigmatic eyebrow waggle and a feathered pop of air.

Sam sighed, smiled. He trailed a finger across the table where Gabriel had been sitting and gnawed his lip. _Shit._ What _was_ someone supposed to buy for their angelic not-a-boyfriend who could manifest whatever he wanted with a snap of his fingers?

—

Shopping with Dean was a pain in the ass, and Sam was glad when they finally gathered their purchases into the Impala and took off for the bunker. He’d bought Dean a new watch—his old one had gotten waterlogged when they’d killed that rusalka a few weeks ago—and a bottle of his favourite whiskey. For Castiel he picked up a box set of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy—he’d coerced the angels into watching the movies with him in October, and Cas had been rather clearly enraptured. Sam could only hope that the angel would return before the month was out.

He still had nothing for Gabriel.

It had to be something only he could give. Something the archangel couldn’t conjure. But still something tangible, something real. That didn’t leave many options. That didn’t leave _any_ options.

Upon waking and finding his gifts, Dean had grudgingly warmed to Gabriel. There had been no formal acknowledgement of any kind between them, but when they’d crossed paths in the kitchen that morning they’d exchanged sincere smiles for the first time since Crawford Hall. And Dean’s smiles, sincere or no, had been rare since Castiel had been gone. The decorations had been a good start, of course, but it still warmed Sam to see them be civil to each other. Was wonderful not to feel like a kid sneaking around with a boy their father disapproved of for once.

That was something Gabriel had given him. What could he possibly give him back?

They pulled up at the bunker and hauled their things inside. As they unloaded, snuck their gifts for each other into their bedrooms, Sam noted the decided absence of Gabriel. Disappointment twinged slight in his chest, that familiar fear that the archangel wasn’t coming back. It wouldn’t be the first time he made a promise to stay and forgotten to keep it. Sometimes he was caught by other angels with crises in hand, or uppity demons hoping to slay the last living archangel. Sometimes time just slipped away, as it must often do for immortal creatures. He always came back, but Sam could never be sure. He’d been dead before. He’d stayed away for years before.

So it was always a relief when he returned. As it was now.

Sam emerged from his room, having just wrapped the last of his gifts. He stepped into the bunker’s main chamber to see Dean with his feet up, sipping a beer. Their eyes met and Sam opened his mouth to ask his brother what he wanted to do for dinner when the air between them was rent with a soft snap. Two angels stood before them then, and Dean’s booted feet thudded to the floor.

“Cas?” he breathed, and in an instant he had his arms wrapped around Castiel, hands fisted in the back of his trenchcoat, mouth pressed sloppy and rough against his. “Goddammit,” he said when he finally broke the kiss, “where’ve you _been?”_

“I…” Castiel cleared his throat, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I have my duties to Heaven, Dean. You know that.”

“I stuck his feathery ass on shore leave for the holidays,” Gabriel said, grinning wide. “Thought you might appreciate, Dean.”

Dean returned the smile before letting his attentions fall back to Castiel. Gabriel swaggered to Sam’s side, cocked an eyebrow.

“Do I,” he began, taking the hunter by the collar with both hands, “or do I not deliver?”

“You do indeed,” Sam grinned, hands firm on Gabriel’s hips. “And if I’m right, this is the second gift you’ve got for Dean and… hm. None for me so far.”

“Jealous? You’re harder to shop for.”

“Am I really?”

“Mm…” Gabriel tugged on his collar, pulled him down for a slow, velvet kiss. The hunter’s hands slid across his back and settled warm, and Sam poured every ounce of feeling he had into that press of lips and tongue. When they broke apart, the archangel turned, one arm still around Sam, to look at their respective brothers, who were huddled at the table trading low words.

Gabriel sighed. Sam stole a glance, caught something in the archangel’s eyes he wasn’t accustomed to seeing. Something soft, something… wistful. As if he were looking at love from the outside. As if he hadn’t just kissed Sam like he meant it and been kissed back the same.

“Wanna get a room?” he asked abruptly, and Sam was startled into an unthinking _yes_. They made to go, and the hunter smiled. He knew what he was getting Gabriel for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, you're not going to see what they got each other yet. That has to wait until Christmas.


	5. Getting/Decorating the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archangel Gabriel is a sulky asshole, pass it on

Gabriel was sulking. He and Sam were in the back of the Impala, and instead of taking one of his usual positions—head in Sam’s lap, or Sam’s long legs artfully tucked around him—he was curled on his side of the seat, chin in his palm. Dean’s music was pealing ‘round the silence, a dirty guitar riff crackling off the aging cassette.   

“I just don’t see why we have to do this in the _first place,_ ” Gabriel said finally. Sam smiled, patted his thigh.

“We’ve never had a real Christmas before,” he said. “We wanna do it right.”

The archangel groaned, squirmed in his seat. Made a point not to move his leg out from under Sam’s hand. “Fuck _right._ What’s the point of going out to buy another tree—I mean for fuck’s sake, you’re not even chopping this one down! You’re just going to a _hardware store,_ you heathens.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You _literally_ snapped the last ones out of thin air.”

 _“And_ got rid of them for you so you could buy your,” he affected a phlegmy, pompous tone, “real tree.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that put a big strain on your fingers.”

Gabriel glared at him, lip curling sour. “Oh, kiddo, you _really_ need to shut up. Do you have any idea what that _takes?_ You can’t make something from nothing.”

“I…” Sam’s gut twisted, but that stubborn part of him—that hard, knee-jerk, hackles-up part—kept his jaw set. “What d’you call what you do, then?”

The archangel’s mouth twitched. He leaned towards Sam, eyes cold and ancient. “I slip between the cracks of space and time and pull at threads, crafting matter from the very fabric of existence. I compress energy and light and mould it like clay, spending a small eternity in that fraction of a second between intent and consummation. To unmake something, I have to pluck apart what I’ve wrought piece by piece, scattering molecules and atoms and pure, undiluted _Creation_ so far apart they may never cross paths again. And every single time it pulls me so thin I think I might break.”

Gabriel drew back, and the twitch of his mouth became a slow curve of bitter satisfaction at the way Sam was gaping at him. “But no,” he said coolly, “getting rid of those trees so you two can feel normal for five minutes was no trouble at all.”

Sam bristled, pulled his hand away. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have asked if—”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Gabriel’s expression softened. “And that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

The hunter stiffened. “So don’t use it to guilt me _now,_ dammit!”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at them, turned back to Dean with his eyebrows raised. Both Sam and Gabriel’s faces twisted.

“Piss off, Cas,” Gabriel snarled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

—

The four of them stood in a row in a tree lot in Belleville, in back of some Ma-n-Pa’s hardware store capitalizing on the holidays. Sam and Dean breathing puffs of cloud in the cool air, the angels shifting uncomfortably in their vessels. None of them spoke, staring at the lineup of felled and netted pines.

“Okay,” Dean threw his hands up, “I’m just gonna ask. How the _fuck_ do you tell a good tree from a bad one?”

“I don’t _know,”_ Sam said, brow furrowed.

“They’re all attractive, for… trees. What’s the difference?” Castiel turned to Gabriel, who shrugged.

“Don’t look at me! How’m I supposed to know?”

“You were a pagan,” Sam snapped. “You were around when all this crap started. You _should_ know.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “How you overestimate my attention span, Sambo. Fine, you want my advice? Next time an archangel goes through the trouble of painstakingly decorating your hole in the ground, you _keep_ the trees he gives you and save an afternoon.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Sam ran a hand over his face. “Gabriel. _Stop it.”_

“Sam—”

“No, you need to stop. Y’know, for a millennia-old angel, you really can be _fantastically_ petty.”

“You wanna see petty, Winchester? ‘Cause I can _get_ petty.”

“Oh, both of you be _quiet.”_ Castiel’s voice was even but still loud enough to hush them. He glared at Sam, expression stern. “Sam, acknowledge your gratitude. I know he’s rude, but he’s trying. Gabriel,” he rounded on his brother, “you’re being an ass. Stop being an ass. Now, let’s pick a tree,” he stepped forward and grabbed the first branch he could reach, “and go back home before I tie you to the bumper and let Dean _drag_ you back.”

Sam snapped to attention, too shocked to disobey. His brother was grinning, blinking starry eyed at his boyfriend. Gabriel rolled his eyes, dragged his feet, but still followed Castiel inside.

They paid for the tree in silence. Dean slung an arm around Cas’ shoulders as they walked back to the car, leaned over and kissed his temple. “That was so fucking hot, man,” he crooned, grinning against Castiel’s hair. The angel smiled.

“You’re disgusting!” Gabriel called, cupping one hand around his mouth as the other supported the trunk of the tree. Sam, who had his arms around the rest of it, shared his sentiment.

“Dammit, Dean.” He wrinkled his nose. “We’re standing right here.”

“And you’re both being snippy little bitches, Sammy, so you don’t get to vote on the PDA.” Dean flashed Sam and Gabriel the widest of shit-eating grins and turned back to nibble at Castiel’s ear.

Sam rolled his eyes, gaze settled on Gabriel, who was already looking at him with the barest quirk of a smile. The hunter returned it, slow and tentative.

“I’m an asshole,” Gabriel said, the words prying his smile wider. “I am an _asshole,_ Sam. Why do you sleep with me?”

“I have no idea,” Sam said, and he was beaming too.

“It’s ‘cause you’re both idiots.” Dean took Gabriel’s end of the tree and helped Sam strap it to the roof of the Impala. “You’re fucking made for each other.”

The archangel and the hunter looked at one another and burst out laughing.

—

The tree was up. They’d struggled and fought and covered themselves in sap and needles—because if they were going to have a real tree, they were going to do it _right_ —but it was up.

That was about when they realized that they had failed to purchase any decorations.

“Goddammit.” Dean ran a hand over his face. “Fuck it, let’s just get ‘em tomorrow. I don’t feel like going out again.”

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “Are you serious? You’re gonna spend _money_ on fuck knows how many ornaments while I’m _right here?”_

Sam put an arm around him, rubbed his shoulder absently. “We wanna do this ourselves, Gabe. S’nothing personal.”

The archangel threw his hands up. “I don’t know _why_ I bother. Sambo, I don’t have to put them on the tree. Just… tell me what you want me to make, and you yahoos can hang ‘em up however you want.”

Sam smiled. “Compromising now, are we?”

“Don’t push your luck, Everest.”

“It’s a good look on you.” Sam ducked and kissed Gabriel on the ear. “And you don’t mind, uh, _slipping through the cracks of time and space_ for some baubles, right?”

“Nah.” Gabriel slipped a hand into the back pocket of Sam’s jeans, gave his ass a squeeze. “S’what I’m here for.”

Sam sighed, rested his cheek against the top of Gabriel’s head. “Not all you’re here for.”

“Hmm?”

“Tell you what—you can make us the ornaments. But only if you help us hang them.”

Gabriel made a face. “Ew. Manual labour. You sure you aren’t still pissed at me?”

“It’s not manual labour! I just… want you to be a part of it. Part of the family.” He met Gabriel’s eye, lips curving fond at the honest shock he found there. “That okay with you?”

Gabriel answered by pulling Sam into a hard and needy kiss.

From somewhere far, far away, Sam heard Dean mutter: “And they call _us_ disgusting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed a couple of days - I had been planning on combining these two prompts anyways, but then I had an assload of work (and then an actual shift of work) on Friday and that set me back like crazy. Enjoy the belated babies!


	6. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistletoe Schmistletoe, let's let these lovebirds bang.

Sam was halfway ready for bed when Gabriel appeared in his bathroom. Curled his arms around Sam’s bare torso, scratch of cloth against his skin, warm palms laid flat on his stomach as the archangel pressed his lips to the hunter’s shoulderblade. Sam lifted a hand to Gabriel’s wrist, running a thumb over his knuckles.

“What, that’s all I get?” Gabriel snickered, propping his forehead against Sam’s back. “No _hello,_ no _good evening, midnight lover?”_

“Mm brufhin’ mah teef,” Sam said around a mouthful of mint froth.

“Ah. So you are. Well.” He leaned up—likely on tiptoes, the midget—and kissed the back of Sam’s neck, tongue flickering to catch the soft patch between his ear and jaw. “When you’re done, come find me, and let’s see if we can’t stuff your mouth with something more fun, hmm?”

Sam choked, leaned over to spit down the drain. Gabriel followed him down and let his lips fall on the hunter’s jaw. “None of that later, please,” he purred. Nipped the skin of Sam’s throat—Sam let out a soft moan and Gabriel chuckled, vanished with a twist of air. Sam’s toothbrush clattered into the sink.

—

It was a game they often played. One got the other hot and bothered and the other took as long as possible to indulge. Sam finished brushing his teeth, took a long, hot shower before finally deigning to return to his bedroom clad in nothing but a towel. Gabriel sat on his bed, already down to boxers and a loose t-shirt. Cross-legged and grinning like an eager child.

The boxers were covered in a candy-cane print, and Sam smiled.

“Did I keep you waiting?” he asked. Gabriel scrambled to the foot of the bed and grabbed Sam’s face, pulling him into an eager kiss, attempting to tug him further up the mattress.

“Too fucking long, Samsquatch,” Gabriel hissed. Fingers tangled in Sam’s damp hair, warm, wet mouth hungry on his. The hunter let the archangel guide him forward, crawling on hands and knees until Gabriel’s skull knocked against the headboard. Gabriel broke away with a small laugh. “Okay, let’s aim for as _much_ of that as possible.”

Sam stopped the advance of his next kiss, two fingers over the angel’s mouth. “Hold on,” he chuckled. Gently removed Gabriel’s hands from his hair, lifted himself up and rolled onto his side.

Gabriel groaned. “You’re _killing me,_ Sam.”

“I have a question for you.” Sam propped himself up on an elbow, peered down at Gabriel. At the sweep of honey-and-chestnut hair, the cleft in his nose, his soft, overbitten lip. Knew it was pointless to get attached to a _vessel_ , that even though Gabriel had made the body himself it wasn’t really him Sam was seeing. Knew that he didn’t care, because Gabriel was gorgeous.

He ducked his head and kissed him quick and gentle. Gabriel kissed back, didn’t otherwise move.

“Lay it on me,” he said quietly.

“Right. I wanted to know…” Sam set his jaw, realizing full well that this would sound strange when he said it out loud. “I wanted to know why you didn’t put up any mistletoe.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Are you _serious?_ That’s it? Why the hell—?”

“Dean pointed it out,” Sam went on. “He said he’d have thought you’d be all over an excuse to force public make-outs. I hadn’t noticed, but… he had a point.”

“Samboni, since you’ve _clearly_ been unconscious for the past week, I feel obligated to remind you that I have no problem making out with you in public. Mistletoe or no mistletoe.”

“Still, passing up an opportunity to be a little shit? Doesn’t really seem like your style, Gabe.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, closed it. “Fair point.”

“So why no mistletoe?”

The archangel met his eye. His mouth a hard line, brows drawn up and turning his expression to a longing sort of pitiful. There was a deep ache there, something very old and very lonely.

“I…” Gabriel sighed. “I don’t wanna force you into anything, Sam. I want you to touch me because you wanna touch me. And you know that I _could_ force you if I wanted, so I don’t… I don’t want to give you a reason to think I’m trying to.”

Sam gaped. “Gabriel, I—”

“I’m more powerful than you are, Sam. I’m older and stronger and… eh, maybe not wiser, but I know a thing or two.”

“Is that… is that why I always…?”

“Top?” The archangel’s mouth twitched. “That’s part of it, yeah. I know what Lucifer did to you, what Gadreel…” his eyes went dark a moment. Shook his head, cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to feel controlled. Plus, I mean, you topping? Hot as fuck, bucko.”

Sam nodded slow. Then in one swift motion he tucked his leg around Gabriel’s, gripped his waist and rolled so that he was on his back, the smaller man on top of him. Gabriel stared wide-eyed down at him, lips parting with a soft sound.

“Sam…”

“I trust you,” Sam said quietly.

Gabriel swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t.”

“And yet I do.” He smirked, ran his fingers through Gabriel’s hair, smoothing it back from where it had fallen into his eyes. “You wanna prove me right?”

His answer was a rough kiss and small hands pinning his to the mattress.

Sam’s leg was still wrapped around Gabriel, and the archangel used the position to his advantage, rolling his hips against Sam in a slow, dirty grind. Sam groaned and tilted his hips into the rhythm—he was already half-hard and gaining, fingers trembling with the urge to touch Gabriel, run down his back and sides and dig hard enough to bruise. But his hands remained held in place.

Gabriel’s mouth trailed down to the crook of Sam’s neck, a wet slide that gave way to the sharp starburst of teeth. The hunter hissed in a breath, and Gabriel sucked the spot, the mark Sam knew was forming there.

“Mine,” Gabriel growled, voice thrumming against Sam’s skin. His cock twitched.

_Fucking hell. Dean can keep his handprint._

Gabriel pulled off him then, rocked back onto his knees and tugged the towel from around Sam’s hips. Smirked a little at the dark patch of damp before tossing it aside, revealing Sam flushed and hard and leaking.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he breathed. Snapped his fingers and was suddenly rid of his clothes as well. Sam’s breath hitched at the sight of him, just as hard as he was. Gabriel dove back over him, kissed him slow. “Do you,” he murmured, “have any idea how _gorgeous_ you are?”

Sam moaned at the press of the archangel, the precome-slick slide of Gabriel’s cock against his. His hands, now free, moved to skate palmflat over Gabriel’s skin. Fingers finding purchase in the meat of his shoulders.

“Starting,” he gasped out, and Gabriel shimmied down, closed his mouth over a nipple. “Oh, _fuck!_ Starting to— _ng_ —get the idea…”

Gabriel worked Sam’s nipple into a hard peak with his tongue, let his lips trail across the expanse of his chest. “I mean,” he spoke between kisses, “all humans. You especially, but… d’you ever think about what you _are?”_

“Not— _ah!”_ The archangel had found his other nipple. “N-not really in the mood for existential naval-gazing, Gabe.”

Gabriel lifted his head, propped himself above Sam. “You,” he said, honey-gold eyes warm and blown with arousal, “are stardust. You are stardust held together by souls more beautiful than any angel in Heaven. And _your_ soul, Sam? I’ve seen it. Lookin’ at it right now. And it’s the brightest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. Reached for Gabriel’s ass and pulled the archangel’s hips flush against his own. Relished in the startled moan that fell from Gabriel’s lips.

“You really, _really_ need to fuck me right now,” he growled, and Gabriel moaned again.

“Ever the dom, huh?” His voice cracked as he pulled back again, gently moving Sam’s hands to his sides. He put his own on Sam’s knees, spreading his legs wide and kneeling between them. Sam shuddered as Gabriel snapped a bottle of lube into his hand, opened it and coated his fingers.

Then one of those fingers was nudging at Sam’s asshole, pressing in wet and cool and _oh_ , that was a wonderful sort of weird. It wasn’t the first time Sam had done this, but it had been a very long time. That single finger was joined by a second, then a third, curling against Sam’s prostate, sending lightning shooting up his spine. Gabriel moved in a hot, slick glide, opening him on a _painfully_ slow rhythm. Sam was aching to be touched, his cock dripping precome onto his shuddering belly. He moved to take himself in his own hand but Gabriel swatted him away.

“You’re coming on my fingers or my cock and _nothing_ else,” he growled, and if he’d meant that to torture Sam further then _job well fucking done_.

“Shit, Gabe,” Sam moaned, fucking back onto his hand, tension pooling in his belly. _“Fuck,_ goddammit, fuck me. Please, Gabriel!”

Gabriel snickered, pressed a kiss to Sam’s knee but kept his rhythm strong. Finally, _finally,_ he drew his fingers out slow, leaving Sam open and leaking. He positioned himself between the hunter’s legs, hands firm on Sam’s hips. Met his eye with a quirk of his mouth.

“You _sure?”_ he asked, and even through the haze of desire Sam could tell he was only half-teasing.

“Gabriel, if you don’t do this _now_ I am never speaking to you again.”

The archangel swallowed visibly. He pushed forward, pushed _in,_ and Sam threw his head back with a groan, teeth gritting through the initial burn until Gabriel bottomed out. He stayed there a moment before he began to move, a slow, dirty press-slide. The head of his cock hit Sam’s prostate once, twice, and Sam tilted his hips to catch the angle better.

They fell into a quick rhythm, hard and slick and all Sam knew was the sound of skin on skin, the aching of his cock and the sharp, electric sparks shooting through him on every thrust. Gabriel fell forward, one hand still on Sam’s hip and the other supporting himself, whiteknuckled in the sheets. Sam’s cock was rubbing against Gabriel’s belly now and _fuck,_ that friction was going to end him.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Gabriel hissed. “Aw, _fuck!”_

“M’close, Gabe, gonna come…”

The archangel moaned above him. His hips were starting to lose their rhythm. Sam could feel his own thighs trembling, felt the pressure building and knew he was nearly gone.

Then Gabriel ducked down for a kiss. A hot, rough, needy thing that tugged at something deep in Sam’s chest. Gabriel bit down hard on his lip and that was it. The dam burst, and Sam’s vision sparked white as he came between them, painting them in long, wet spurts. He clung to Gabriel’s shoulders, moving his mouth to plant a sloppy kiss against the skin of his throat as the archangel babbled distant encouragement in his ear.

_Beautiful… so beautiful…_

With one last stuttering _push_ Gabriel brought himself over the edge too. Moaned low into the nest of Sam’s hair, spilled heat into his core.

Gabriel collapsed on top of him, breathing ragged and deep. Dizzy with sex, Sam ran his fingers through the archangel’s hair absently.

“Was right to trust you,” he whispered when he found his voice again. “Proved me right.”

“Mmm,” Gabriel hummed, turning his head so his chin was tucked against Sam’s shoulder. “Guess I got you, Sammy.”

“Yeah.” Sam breathed a laugh. “Guess you do.”


	7. Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you wanna build a snowman? (I know guys I'm so original and hilarious please love me)

It so happened that the bunker’s pantry was out of vanilla extract. Sam didn’t understand why this was a problem.

“Crepes don’t really _need_ vanilla, do they?” he asked. Gabriel and Dean leveled exasperated looks at him. Castiel, sitting at the table beside Sam, wore an expression that managed to convey the absolute irritation of an eyeroll without actually moving any muscles. Sam was impressed.

“Yes they _do_ need vanilla, Sam,” Dean said.

Gabriel shook his head. “I can’t believe I ever slept with you.”

Sam grinned at him, and Gabriel winked.

When they’d first started having sex, Gabriel never stayed the night. Angels didn’t need to sleep, after all, and what they had was far too casual, too tenuous to warrant that level of intimacy. Or that’s what Gabriel had said, at least. Sam remembered reaching out to him after that first time, pulling him close in a heady haze of afterglow and _softwarm Gabriel my Gabriel…_ only to have the archangel push him off. Gentle but firm. “Hey, now, not on the first date, kiddo.”

In recent months Sam often fell asleep with Gabriel wrapped around him, even if he was rarely there when he woke. This time, however, he had been. Morning had found Sam still tangled in angel, cheek pressed against Gabriel’s chest. He glanced up. A soft smile greeted him.

“Good mo-ornin’, starshine,” Gabriel drawled.

“Don’t you get bored?” Sam yawned, stretching his arms, his legs—ooh, sore—and wiping his eye on the back of his hand. “Waiting so long for me to wake up, I mean?”

“Time,” Gabriel said, tone pompous, “is a construct of human perception, and I want no part of it.”

“So… no?”

“Eh, you’re warm and cuddly, for a body builder. I get by.”

They’d remained curled together for some time before Gabriel had finally suggested they have breakfast. He’d then proceeded to describe in graphic detail the many different ways to prepare crepes until Sam conceded to let him go.

It was difficult, sometimes, to let him go.

“So,” he said, still smiling, “if you need vanilla so bad, why don’t you just… snap some up? Hell, just conjure the crepes if you need to.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Can’t. After last night my snapping fingers are _way_ too tired. I can see why Deano here calls you a tightass.”

Dean choked on his coffee, and Gabriel cackled.

—

“So what’s your game?”

“Hm?” Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. His mouth and chin were buried under the thick wool of a garish red scarf, the rest of him already fully dressed for the December chill as Sam stooped to lace up his boots.

“Okay, I know you didn’t have these clothes before,” the hunter said. “You aren’t too tired to do shit. So why’re you insisting we go to the store for _vanilla?”_

Gabriel shrugged. “Reasons. Also, I just really, _really_ wanted to make that tightass joke. Did you see Dean’s face? _So_ worth it.”

“Well, you got me hungry for crepes, so whatever this is, you owe me a stack afterwards. Got it?”

“You don’t stack crepes, you barbarian,” Gabriel made a face as the two of them made their way to the bunker exit.

“Why not?” Sam unlatched the door. “They’re just thin pancakes, right?”

Gabriel put a hand over his chest, staggered back a step. “Oh, _Sammy._ You’re breaking my heart.”

They stepped outside and Sam stopped dead.

Snow. There was a thick blanket of snow covering _everything._

Sam glanced back at Gabriel, a smile creeping slow over his features. Gabriel was smirking, eyes dancing like he’d been waiting for this moment all morning. Which, well, he probably had.

“So,” he said, clapping mittened hands together. “I’m thinking snowman?”

“This is it?” Sam laughed. “You wanted me to play in the snow?”

“Would you have come out if I’d just _said_ that?”

“I’m a grown man, Gabriel.”

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “And I’m an ancient celestial being. Your point?”

Sam laughed again, gnawed at his lip. He bent over and gathered a handful of snow, packing it into a tight ball between his palms. Placed it back on the ground and began to roll it along, shuffling through white on his knees.

He tossed a smile over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Gabriel returned the expression and began his own ball, rolling parallel to Sam through the snow. At one point it became a race, see who could make it to the road sign faster—then they started focusing on making the balls perfectly spherical and the damn things got out of hand. By the end, Sam’s base was up to his naval, and Gabriel’s not much smaller. It took both of them to roll it on top of the larger ball, at which point it just… rolled off the opposite side and broke into a sad little snowhill.

Both of them burst out laughing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Gabriel held up his hands, giggling. “How about this.”

He conjured a carrot and a handful of coal chunks, carried them to the collapsed ball and dropped them unceremoniously on the pile. Sam snickered.

“Not done.” The archangel snapped his fingers, and the base suddenly had two branches for arms, one of them holding a detailed snowgun aimed at where the top ball would have been. Gabriel took his hat off and held it over his heart. “Poor soul… he had _so much_ to live for!”

And Sam doubled over again.

He straightened after a moment, blinking tears from his eyes. Saw Gabriel smiling at him, his vessel’s cheeks and nose flushed with cold. Sam ducked and kissed him.

“You’re cute all pink like that,” he said, grinning.

Gabriel nudged him, his expression remaining fond. “Getting sappy on me, Gigantor? Cute’s for boyfriends. I’m _devastatingly handsome.”_

Sam knew his smile faltered at that, the not-so-subtle push away. Knew Gabriel saw it, because the archangel’s eyes flickered dim and something in the curl of his lips turned sad. His every feature screaming _I’m not cute, Sam, and I can’t ever be._

There was a moment of loaded quiet, then both of them seemed to decide to stuff the issue down. Their smiles broadened in unison, the light returned to Gabriel’s eyes, and he hooked his arm through Sam’s.

“C’mon,” he said, promenading the hunter away from their suicidal snowman. “Let’s get warmed up.”


	8. Ugly Sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel continues to be a little shit, and Sam makes an important discovery

Castiel was the only one to blame, really.

That’s what Sam told himself, at least. Castiel was the one who had wondered. Castiel was the one who had _asked._

“Why don’t you two own anything festive?”

And wasn’t that a loaded question.

The four of them had stopped a haunting in Hoisington, a quick salt-and-burn operation, only taken about thirty hours. It was close to midnight now, and they had pulled up at the bunker cold, wet, and miserable not an hour before. Gabriel had conjured cookies and hot chocolate and they were currently bundled in fresh flannel, sitting on cushy archangel-crafted couches in the library. Warming their feet by the fire.

“Whaddya mean?” Dean asked, slurping at his drink. “The bunker’s plenty festive.”

“Yes, but this was all Gabriel’s doing. None of it’s actually yours. Why isn’t any of it yours?”

“Believe me, little brother,” Gabriel said from his position curled in Sam’s lap, “I asked myself the same damn question.”

Sam shrugged. “Never had a chance to, ah…”

“Accumulate,” Dean offered.

“Yeah, um, accumulate any… Christmas stuff. Y’know how we grew up.”

Cas nodded slow, seemed to look contrite. Gabriel squeezed Sam’s thigh, wriggled warm against him.

“And that’s why we’re here, Cassie. This Christmas is Fun Angel Christmas, and there will be _plenty_ of festive crap flying around.”

Sam chuckled. “Mm, festive flying _crap,_ sounds delightful.”

“Shut up, Sambo, you know what I meant.”

Dean barked a laugh, and Cas cracked a shy smile. Sam dug into Gabriel’s side with a finger, grinned at the way the archangel twisted, swatted at his hands. At the soft peck on the cheek he got for his troubles. Sam rested his chin on Gabriel’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of him.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I’m grateful for the crap.”

Addendum: he wanted to hold onto _the crap_ as long as he could if it meant keeping Gabriel there with him.

Dean nodded. “It’s great. Kinda feels… cozy.”

Castiel wrapped an arm around his waist, leaned on him. Dean melted into the embrace, and for a moment all was peaceful. The fire crackling, the cocoa rich and tasty. Both couples warm and nestled tight, the four of them comfortable just sharing the space. It felt like family. Felt like home.

It was exactly that sort of atmosphere that made Gabriel start to squirm. He snapped his now-empty mug away and cracked his knuckles. Sam’s gut knotted ever so slightly—such gestures rarely resulted in good things.

“You are, of course, completely right, Cas,” he said, mouth wry. “I’d say our boys could use some more holiday cheer.”

“Gabriel, I swear, I will—”

 _“Relax,_ Dean. Your precious arsenal shall remain unglitterfied.” The archangel wiggled his fingers. “Just thought we should all try wearing something a bit more… fitting for the season.”

He snapped his fingers.

And suddenly Sam regretted every decision he’d ever made.

All four of them were now wearing matching cashmere sweaters, red and white and patterned with snowflakes. They weren’t hideous, were actually quite comfortable—but in the middle of each, emblazoned across their chests, were three white reindeer… _humping_ each other.

Castiel was pulling his away from his body, peering down at the pattern with a furrowed brow. “I… don’t understand what… oh.” He tilted his head at Gabriel, disappointment clear in his eyes. “Why.”

Dean, meanwhile, looked as if he’d lost all faith in angelkind. Gabriel’s head was thrown back in laughter, resting in the crook of Sam’s neck. The taller man met his brother’s eye, gave a helpless smile and shrug.

_What can I do? I love the dumb bastard._

_… Wait._

“Your _face,_ Dean!” Gabriel cackled. “C’mon, lighten up! It’s funny!”

Dean turned to Castiel for support. The angel’s mouth twitched, broke into another smile. Wide, with teeth. He began to laugh, low and rumbling. “You look ridiculous.”

To his credit, Dean held out a full fifteen seconds more before cracking up himself.

Sam, grinning ear to ear, turned Gabriel’s face so he could kiss him. His chest felt light, warm—that overwhelming feeling of _family,_ of _home_ and _safe_ and _right_ filled him from his head to his toes. He held Gabriel that much tighter, both of their shoulders shaking with silent laughter and decided that yes, he really _did_ love the dumb bastard. With everything he had.

What that meant and whether it was reciprocated didn’t matter just then. All that mattered in that moment was laughter and chocolate and inappropriate sweaters. His brother and his brother’s angel, and Gabriel warm in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Sam's epiphany was unplanned, but there you have it! He's officially in love. Does Gabriel feel the same way? How will he react to the news? Will Sam even tell him? AND WHAT ABOUT THE BABY?? Find out in the next exciting instalment of Oblivious Idiots at Christmastime.


	9. Baking Christmas Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a cookie is just a cookie, Sam.

“Today,” Sam said, “I’m going to teach you how to make shortbread.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, swung his legs like a child. If Dean had known that he was sitting on the counter he’d have pitched a fit, but Dean wasn’t home. Neither was Cas. They’d gone into town for lunch, leaving Sam and his archangel in the bunker alone.

“No offense, Sammoose,” Gabriel said, “but I wouldn’t trust you within ten feet of any sort of cookery.”

“Hey, just because Dean’s food is better doesn’t mean I’m hopeless. I can cook just fine _._ I can’t cook a _lot_ of stuff, but I get by!”  

“If that was meant to instill me with confidence, it failed. Miserably.”

“Look, I might not be the _best_ chef, but shortbread is one of the few things I actually _do_ know how to cook, all right?”

Gabriel winced. “You don’t _cook_ shortbread, you _bake—_ seriously, Sammy, it’s like you’re _trying_ to make this worse for yourself.”

Sam gave him a look. Gabriel cocked an eyebrow in response. _Am I wrong? Tell me I’m wrong._

“Besides,” the archangel went on, “if I want shortbread it isn’t exactly hard for me to get some.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet you don’t know how to make it from scratch, right?” Sam smiled sly. “Hell, do you know how to make _anything_ from scratch?”

Gabriel’s eyes flitted down. Sam thought he looked almost embarrassed. “I don’t _need_ to.”

“Ha! I knew it.” He planted his hands on either side of Gabriel, leaned in excitedly. “C’mon. Just try it, it’s easy. There’s only four ingredients.”

Sam was proud of his puppy eyes. Liquid and soft and big, the slightest hint of a pout to his brow and mouth. It came to him naturally, but he had honed a specific variant of the look that he reserved for wheedling purposes. He turned that variant on Gabriel now, and couldn’t help the sneak of a grin as he watched the archangel’s resolve melt away.

Gabriel, for his part, only huffed. Lay back on the counter and slithered off the edge so he was standing flush against Sam’s chest. Soft and warm and golden. Damn him.

“Fine,” he chirped, smirking as he sidled out of Sam’s reach. “Teach me your ways, O King of Simple Cookies.”

Sam did. He ran through the steps: creaming the butter, mixing in the sugar and vanilla (which Gabriel _had_ snapped up for him eventually) and flour, rolling out the dough. Quick and uncomplicated. As soon as his batch was in the oven, he laid out the ingredients once more and opened his arms wide.

“Okay,” he said, “think you got it? Wanna give it a go?”

Gabriel rolled up his sleeves, snapped his fingers and was wearing an apron with a female bikini-body emblazoned upon it. Waggled his fingers at the setup before him. “Please, Samosa. I was a sugar-toothed Trickster god for, like, a millennium. This’ll be a cakewalk. Or a… cookiewalk. I don’t know.”

He added too much sugar. Too much, and the butter wasn’t creamed fully. Sam pointed it out and he glared.

“Stand over there,” he pointed to the farthest corner of the kitchen, “and shut up.”

“I’m just—”

“Nobody likes a backseat baker, Sambo.” Gabriel’s tone was light but there was something determined in the set of his smirk. He really _did_ want to do this himself.

Sam did he as he was told, sat and watched from afar as Gabriel measured the flour, mixed the dough and rolled it out. It looked too flaky, too lumpy even from a distance, but he held his tongue. The archangel’s hands were unsteady and there was a frustrated crease between his brows. As if he was unsure in his own skin—and that was something Sam had never thought he’d see. Gabriel had always seemed so at home in his vessel. So relaxed, so deceptively _human._ Now he was all-too-clearly angel. Alien.

It reminded Sam of the first time they’d kissed, the first time they’d had sex. Sam had been mostly dead, burned and bleeding after their final takedown of a repowered Metatron, and Gabriel had healed him. It had taken a few hours to pull him back from that edge, and after that… something changed between them. Several days of tension later, Sam made the decision to cross the line. They came together in a crash of want and need and _why didn’t we do this years ago_.  And somewhere in there, somewhere between the initial wild kiss and Gabriel coming apart in Sam’s arms, something in the archangel had shifted. Turned _vulnerable._ Like he was feeling his way through something raw and fragile and new. Like that terrified him just as much as it excited him.  

The cookies were like that. Smaller scale, but similarly destabilizing.

Sam wondered how long it had been since Gabriel had tried to make something without his powers.

“So how’s it feel to bake in this plane of existence?” he teased.

Gabriel’s mouth quirked as he put the uncooked dough in the oven, swapping his tray for Sam’s. “You’re a real riot, kiddo, you know that?”

Sam’s shortbread, once it had cooled, was more or less perfect. They sucked buttery crumbs from their fingers, wrapping the rest up for Dean and Castiel. By the time they cleaned up their mess—rather, Gabriel snapped everything clean and in place, because Sam didn’t feel like washing dishes—the second batch of cookies was done.

There were craters left by bubbles of air, clumps of sugar throughout. Too sweet, too floury, an unholy, crumbling mess of lumpy dough. Sam powered through a whole cookie, but Gabriel took one bite and tossed his aside with a curling lip.

“Well,” he said, and there was a shot of bitter in his tone, “looks like I should stick to the superjuice, huh?”

Sam shrugged. “It was your first try. S’no big deal, Gabe. Next time—”

“Next time I’ll do it my way.” Gabriel snapped his fingers and the rest of the cookies disappeared.

“C’mon, Gabriel. Are you really gonna give up just because you fucked up one batch?”

“Ah, but if I zap ‘em up I don’t have to fuck up _anything.”_ The archangel was smiling, but the expression was tight. “It doesn’t matter if I can’t function as a human, Sam. I’m not one.”

Sam stared at him. Met his eye, saw something pained there and wondered whether this was really all about the shortbread.

 _I love you,_ he wanted to say. _And I don’t care what you are._

Instead, he leaned in and swiped a spot of flour off Gabriel’s cheek with his thumb. “Eh, we still have my batch, don’t we?”

“Sam.”

“Hm?”

Gabriel had that look again, that sad, impossible look. Like something of vast, world-shattering importance was lodged in his throat but he wouldn’t mind if he swallowed it down.

Sam thought he knew what it was. Knew he didn’t want to hear it. Smiled wide and sunny, reached for his wrapped tray of shortbread cookies and held it between them.

“Hey,” he said, “Dean and Cas don’t have to know we made these. Want another?”

Gabriel swallowed and grinned. “Don’t mind if I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did I make baking angsty? I don't know. But the last chapter was way too happy so here, have some more of Gabriel being a distance-creating idjit.


	10. Fireside Snogging/Watching a Christmas Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel can't fucking spit it out
> 
> (WARNING: also in which there is heavily implied rape. It's a dream sequence, but still.)

Gabriel the Trickster Archangel, possessor of unfathomable cosmic powers surpassing the capabilities and comprehension of the majority of Creation, was bingewatching Christmas DVDs.

He’d set up a large screen above the fireplace in the library. Declared on the morning of the eleventh that he was going to start with the stop-motion Rankin/Bass Rudolph and then “see where the day took him”. Sam, Dean, and Castiel had been filtering in and out throughout the day—Cas sat, fascinated, through some obscure Canadian Nutcracker cartoon, and Dean through the animated _How the Grinch Stole Christmas._ Sam had joined him when he got to _White Christmas,_ at which point Gabriel had decided that Sam was infinitely more interesting than Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye.

“And you have _no idea,_ ” he said between kisses, “how difficult that is to admit. I had _such_ a thing for Danny Kaye back in the day.”

“Mm, yeah, this must be really _hard_ for you.” Sam rolled his hips, grinding rough against Gabriel, and the archangel broke away with a sharp gasp.

“You little _shit!”_ He half-laughed before ducking back down for another kiss.

Out of the three of them, Sam spent the most time on that couch. But Gabriel appeared to be the only one in the bunker with the wherewithal to withstand that many hours of festive celluloid. He was left alone around one AM, somewhere between _Die Hard_ and _Ernest Saves Christmas._

“Aw, c’mon Samsquatch!” Gabriel whined, tugged on the sleeve of Sam’s shirt as the hunter made to go to bed. “I know it’s not as good as the first one, but it’s still _watchable.”_

“I’m _tired,_ Gabriel,” Sam smiled, pressed a kiss to the angel’s ear. “I’m assuming you’ll still be watching when I get up?”

“Eh, probably. Meet up later for _A Christmas Carol?_ ”

“Sure. G’night.”

—

_Iceflesh against his skin, coldburningcold down to his bones, shuddering deep._

_Hand over his mouth, palm against his teeth—lightning in his nerves, sharp sore—fingers curling against his cheek, broken nails raking red trails over raw skin._

_Hiss—“Mine, you little bitch. Skin so soft and pretty. Mouthy piece of shit, you’re just begging for it, aren’t you? Drag me down here… I’ll make you fucking pay.”_

_And he’s burning, all of him, from his inside out. Sharp pain, needles and thunderclaps and sandpaper. Belly and backside purple with fingerprints, handprints. Let go, left empty and weeping and worthless. Coldburningcold out of his core, red and white leaking warm on a brimstone floor._

 

Sam jolted awake. He sucked in a breath, let it out slow. Blinked away the saltsting of brimming tears. On a reflex he wrapped his arms around himself. He squeezed, rubbing his biceps slow, his thumbs moving in small circles against his skin. He could get himself through this alone. He always did.

_But you don’t have to._

Dean loved him, but he wasn’t the type of person who could give Sam the sort of comfort he needed. Neither was Castiel. And usually they were the only other people within reach when the nightmares hit. But not tonight.

Sam hauled himself out of bed and made his way to the library on weak legs.

Gabriel was sprawled on the couch, a bucket of popcorn between his thighs. The fire was smoldering low, the screen above aglow with _Love, Actually._

“Gabriel?” Sam cursed his voice for shaking.

The archangel turned, smiled at the sight of him. “Hey, Smoked Sammon. Couldn’t sleep? Distracted by thoughts of all of this,” he gestured to his prone body, “laid out all hot and waitin’ for ya?”

Sam took a step closer, a step further into the light, and Gabriel tensed. “Shit,” he muttered. Snapped his fingers and the movie paused, the popcorn disappeared. He scrambled onto his knees, peeking over the back of the couch with wide eyes. “Sam, what’s wrong?”

The hunter reached the couch, came around and sat next to Gabriel. “Just…” He swallowed hard. “Just hold me?”

Gabriel nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, I can do that.”

Short arms wrapped around him and Sam melted into Gabriel’s embrace, soft and warm and _safe._ He buried his face in the crook of the archangel’s neck, breathed in the scent of him. Pulled tight against him, fingers bunching in the back of his shirt. Took a long breath, shuddered and let out a half-bitten sob.

“Fuck,” he sniffed, “I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Gabriel said, rubbing gentle between his shoulderblades. “I’ve got you, Sammy, I’ve got you…”

The levee broke, then, and Sam wept openly.

He had no idea how long they sat there before his sobs gave way to shaky breaths, wiped his eyes on the shoulder of Gabriel’s shirt like a little boy.

“I’m an idiot,” he muttered, drawing away. “Fuck, it was just a dream, but…”

“Hell?” Gabriel asked quietly.

Sam nodded. “Hell.”

“You’re not an idiot, Sam.” Gabriel, hands still firm on his back, tucked a leg around his hip, pulled himself into Sam’s lap and curled into him. “You’re not. You’re a fucking survivor, okay?” He brought one hand to cradle the back of Sam’s head, let his fingers tangle in his hair. “But you’re safe now, Sam. He’s not gonna come for you, he’s not gonna touch you again. I’ll die first, you hear me?”

“You did,” Sam whispered.

Gabriel laughed bitter, his frame shaking against Sam’s. “Yeah, I guess so. But it wasn’t the same then. Between us.”

Sam nuzzled his neck. “I know.”

And he knew that Gabriel meant it when he said he’d die first. Knew that now that they were… whatever it was they were, Gabriel was _his._ And knowing that just made him cling tighter, because this was the one thing. Aside from his brother, this was the one thing he couldn’t lose.

“Gabriel,” he murmured, pulling away slightly so he could look the archangel in the eye. “I l—”

“I know.” Gabriel smiled, and the smile was sad. “I know, Sammy, I know.”

“And?”

For answer, Gabriel kissed him. At once hungry and soft, a velvet slide with a desperate edge. Sam responded in kind, and for a long moment everything was warmth and plush and crackling flame.  

Gabriel pulled away first, rested his forehead against Sam’s. “I need you,” he said. “For as long as I can have you, Sam, I need you.”

Sam sighed deep and smiled. Knew this was the best he was going to get. Knew it was everything he wanted right then.

“Because I’m better than Danny Kaye, right?” His smile curled into a smirk.

Gabriel grinned. “A better kisser _,_ definitely. And if you’ve never kissed Danny Kaye, lemme tell you, that is a _compliment.”_

Sam laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will there be an "I love you" on the horizon? Possibly. If GreyMichaela punches me hard enough. COME AT ME, BRO. 
> 
> Also, Gabriel apparently shares my weakness for cute, dead comedians! If you don't know who Danny Kaye is, go watch the 1947 version of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Or The Court Jester. Don't watch White Christmas, though, White Christmas is kind of a bore tbh.


	11. Listening to Christmas Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: I blatantly ignore the prompt

Sam woke the next morning still on the couch. A line of soft heat against his back, Gabriel’s arms wrapped around his middle.

_Wow, that makes twice this week. On a roll._

He craned his head, nuzzled Gabriel’s cheek. “Morning,” he murmured.

“Mm… early one Christmas morning.”

Sam frowned. He pulled away, squirmed in the archangel’s arms so he was facing him. Gabriel’s face was skewed in an expression that was two parts shock and panic, two parts fury.

“What is this feeling?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Uh, Gabriel… are you okay?”

“I’ve been wrong before…” Gabriel untangled himself from Sam, sat up. Sam followed him. He worked his mouth wordlessly a moment, frustration clearly mounting. “The… curse,” he managed, finally. “Under the god.”

Sam blinked.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. _“Chaos,”_ he snapped.

_Chaos. God. Curse._

“Oh, shit.” Sam rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. It was too goddamn early for this. “You said you pissed off a chaos god when you got Dean those knives. And now he’s… oh, fuck, are you _serious?”_

“Dead serious,” Gabriel said. He made a face. “I didn’t see it coming.”

“So he’s cursed you to… what? Talk all stilted?”

Gabriel sniffed. “Ignorance. No.”

“What, then?”

The archangel sighed, snapped his fingers. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing happened. Gabriel growled and stepped over Sam, off the couch. Began pacing the length of the room. It felt as if he were expanding as Sam watched him—his pudgy little body seemed to be taking up more space somehow, and suddenly the room was thick withthe smell of burning hair. And as he paced, his forearms began— _oh fuck—_ they began to drip red as sigils carved themselves into his flesh. Shallow but bloody, and tinged with the blue-white of Grace. Gabriel took one look at them and his eyes blazed furious. Sam couldn’t move.

“Fuck you,” Gabriel snarled. “No power. Fuck _you.”_

“Gabriel, what’s going on? What’d he _do_ to you?”

“Simple twist of fate. Waiting on words. The curse. The _curse!”_

_“What?”_

They went back and forth like that for a minute, and it wasn’t until Gabriel pointed at him and called him a good old-fashioned lover boy that Sam realized what the chaos god’s curse had done.

Gabriel could only speak in song titles.

—

Castiel pored over the sigils on Gabriel’s forearms with a furrowed brow. Let his fingers ghost over the incisions.

“These marks,” he said, “they represent some extremely intricate spellcraft. Gabriel’s been bound inside his vessel.”

Gabriel let out a long, relieved exhale. “Thank you,” he said, letting his head loll back.

“So… he’s human?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“No, but he’s going to have to act like one. His true self is effectively imprisoned within this body. He can’t use his powers, or leave the vessel. Not until the curse is undone.”

“And how do we do that?” Sam asked. He had one hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, thumb stroking absently.

Castiel’s mouth twitched. _“We_ can’t. Gabriel has to perform an act of genuine vulnerability. Of pure, unrepentant humbleness.”

The four of them exchanged anxious glances. Dean leaned forward and patted Gabriel on the knee.

“Looks like you’re jammed in there for good, buddy. Sorry.”

Gabriel stuck his tongue out at him.

“Dean.” Sam attempted to look stern. “C’mon. He can… he can _try_ to be humble.”

Cas shook his head. “It has to be more than that. It won’t work unless it’s _selfless._ That means he can’t do it with the intention of breaking the curse. It has to come from himself, and it has to be sincere.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah, again, sorry about that, Gabriel. You didn’t have to get me the knives, man.”

“What about the song title thing?” Sam asked, more to change the subject than anything. “How do we stop that?”

“This too shall pass,” Gabriel grumbled.

“Yes, it looks like it’ll fade,” Cas shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. I expect the chaos god just wanted to annoy him.”

 _“Torture,”_ Gabriel groaned. Tugged on Sam’s hand, leaned his head back and peered up at the hunter with a kicked-puppy expression. “Misery loves company?”

Sam smiled, though it was strained. It was his fault that Gabriel had gone off to get those knives. His fault the archangel was trapped.

He sat on the couch and Gabriel promptly wrapped himself around him. Well. It would appear that he wasn’t being blamed.

“How’s it feel?” Sam asked, rubbing Gabriel’s back. “Being stuck in your vessel, I mean?”

“Hurt,” Gabriel said quietly. “Pain redefined.”

 _Shit._ “Is there… anything I can do?”

The archangel nuzzled his shoulder. “Stay with me? Sam. Hold me.”

Sam laughed, soft on a breath. “Déjà vu. You got it, Gabe. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTINUITY
> 
> I know, I know, this barely has anything to do with Christmas, but I got the idea of the song title curse from Whose Line is it Anyway? and decided to run with it. Also: why yes, this IS a blatant abuse of a plot device to make Gabriel stop being an idiot. It's Christmas, have fun with it. 
> 
> Also also: yes, everything Gabriel says are all real song titles. I checked.


	12. Ice Skates, Snowballs, and Lending Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluff fluff

The song curse unwound itself by the following morning, but Gabriel was still trapped in his vessel. Arms still marked in red scabbing over. And now that he could properly express himself he was no longer so reserved about his discomfort.

“Ugh, how do you _stand_ it, being stuck in so small a space?” he moaned, stretching his limbs out as far as they could go. He was sprawled naked, starfish-style on Sam’s bed. Sam sat on the edge, tugging jeans over legs still tacky with dried sweat. “That was like fucking in a child’s sleeping bag. Except less creepy.”

Sam cringed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t take it personal, Samalam. It was still _fucking,_ that part was great. But I feel like I’m wrapped in rubber bands right now and that kinda sucks ass.” He groaned, arched his back, wriggled his fingers and toes. “It’s too tight. And it _itches.”_

“So I guess we can cross sex off the list of Things That Might Make You Feel Better?” Sam buttoned his jeans and ran his hands through his hair, combing it down.

“Eh, no. It didn’t make me feel _better,_ but it made me feel a lot less like killing myself, so I’d weigh it in as a plus.”

Sam nodded, smirked. "Okay. Good to know."

"Waitaminute." Gabriel turned his head to face Sam, a smile curling slow over his features. "That's what that was? You're just trying to figure out how to make me feel better?"

"Yeah. I was horny, too, but yeah."

"Sam Winchester, you are too good for this world."

Sam grinned. Leaned over and kissed him in the corner of his mouth. "Hence why I'm screwing an angel."

"Well, duh."

—

“Sam, where the hell are we going?”

Operation Make Gabriel Feel Less Like Shit had so far consisted of plying the archangel with some of his favourite things: candies, baked goods, and blowjobs. Though all worked in the moment, Gabriel was still antsy. Still feeling confined, straining against his skin. Kept going on about how he was a "man of action" and "lying about did not become him".

So that afternoon saw Sam shuffling Gabriel into the Impala—it was Dean and Castiel’s turn to have the bunker to themselves—and driving him away without a word. Gabriel hadn’t resisted, had been too massively uncomfortable to resist, but now that he was settled in shotgun with nothing to do and nowhere to go, his mind could turn to petty things like destinations and intent.

"I'm not telling," Sam said.

"Oh, come on!" Gabriel squirmed in his seat. "I'm _unwell_. Don't toy with me, Samuel."

"First off, never call me that again. Second, no. It's a surprise."

Gabriel made a face. "Is this karma? Is this what karma feels like? I don't like it."

Sam laughed, reached over and gave Gabriel's thigh an absent pat-and-rub. "Don't worry. You'll have fun, I promise."

The archangel grumbled but settled, leaned his leg into the slow-moving warmth of Sam's hand. They drove another ten minutes in companionable silence before Sam pulled onto an unpaved side road. He parked the Impala in a small dirt lot surrounded by snow-laden trees.

"Oh no, you brought me here to murder me, didn't you?" Gabriel deadpanned.

Sam smiled, exited the car without a word. Gabriel followed him out and around the vehicle. Watched him haul a large canvas duffel bag out of the trunk.

"What's in the—?”

"Shh." Sam's smile turned wry. "In a minute."

They took a small path through the brush, packed with frozen ruts of upturned mud, half-decomposed mulch revealed by scraped-away snow. After a few minutes of walking, they found themselves standing before a small frozen-over lake—a glorified pond, really—in the middle of the sparse wood. Sam placed the duffel bag on the ground, unzipped it and drew out two pairs of ice skates.

“Sam,” Gabriel said slowly, “are you taking me skating?”

Sam only grinned wider and shoved a pair of white skates into Gabriel’s arms. “Strap on.”

“Words that should never be said outside a bedroom.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, but after a moment he bent over and began to swap his boots for weathered white leather. “I… don’t know _how_ to skate, you know.” He said it quiet and careful, as if he were ashamed to admit it.

“You’ve been around this long and never tried?”

“Oh, no, I’ve _skated,_ but, ah...” he waved a hand. “I always mojo’d myself balanced. I’ve never done it…”

“Normally?”

Gabriel bristled visibly, gave a sniff. “Normal is relative, Samaretto.”

Sam thought of the shortbread cookies, the hesitant, helpless air that Gabriel took on when trying things the human way. Realized with a startled jolt that the shifting look in the archangel’s eyes was _nervousness._

“Hey.” Sam finished lacing up his skates and reached out, helping Gabriel to his feet and holding the both of them in wobbly place. “It’s okay. I’ll help you out. I haven’t done this in a while myself, I’m probably gonna be falling on my ass as much as you are.”

Gabriel arched an eyebrow, but his smile was genuine. “Comforting.”

Whatever fears Gabriel had seemed to disappear the moment they stepped out onto the ice. Sam took long, sweeping strides back, pulling Gabriel along slow. He’d learned how to skate when he was young, borrowing blades from the few friends he managed to make at school. Winter was always a better time for that—John had let him and Dean stay put more often when the weather got cold.

Now, it was almost effortless slipping back into it. The sharp slides, angles and tilts—and balancing was made infinitely easier with Gabriel there to counteract his weight. They did a few laps around the pond, weaving in wide loops. Skirting clearly thin patches and clumps of dead, frozen flora peeking out of the ice. After a few minutes, Sam loosened his grip, tried pulling his hands away. Gabriel squeezed his fingers.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hissed, his eyes flickering from his feet to Sam’s face. “I am _not_ injuring myself while this curse is on.”

“You know you’re not actually _human,_ right?”

“My vessel is, dumbass! If I fall on my face, my nose _will_ break. And trust me, I won’t let it go. You’ll be on your deathbed, and I’ll still be saying _fuck you and your ice skates.”_

He laughed through the threat, and Sam joined him. Not the least because Gabriel had never put their _thing_ in the context of time before. Of years and old arguments and lifespans. _For as long as I can have you_ had been romantic, but vague. Now it seemed that it meant _for as long as Sam lived._

The hunter took in the archangel, whose discomfort was apparently forgotten—his cheeks windbitten pink, laughing with his mouth and his eyes. Sam’s chest swelled warm with affection. Spending the rest of his life with Gabriel was _definitely_ something he could do.

They continued skating for a while. Sam felt the burn in his limbs and saw that Gabriel was beginning to wilt some and started tugging him back towards shore. As they staggered back onto firmer ground, Sam tripped and sent the both of them tumbling into the snow in a heap.

“We made it that _whole time_ without falling, and you trip on dry land,” Gabriel snickered. “Graceful as a fucking bison, you are.”

“Shut up,” Sam laughed. Grabbed a loose handful of snow and flung it at Gabriel’s chest. 

The archangel made an affronted noise. “How _dare_ you!” He packed his own snowball and crushed it right on Sam’s face.

Sam spluttered and blinked, his nose stinging with cold. “What the hell, man? You got fucking _powder.”_

“All’s fair in snowball war.”

“Ass.”

“I’m serious.” Gabriel sat up and began unlacing his skates, tossing them beside the duffel bag and reaching for his boots. “I take the etiquette of snowball war very seriously. No iceballs, no crotch shots…”

“I thought you said all’s fair.” Sam mirrored him, had one boot on now.

“Except iceballs and crotch shots. You gotta learn to listen, Sam.” The archangel stood, hands on his hips. Rolled his shoulders. “Fuck, I’m feeling it again now…”

“But the skating helped?”

“It did, yeah. I guess as long as I’m _moving_ it keeps the itch down.”

“Mm.” Sam pursed his lips, thoughtful. He finished putting on his second boot and scooped up another handful of snow, this time taking care to mould it into a solid ball.

“Uh… what’re you doing, Sambo?”

“You said you gotta keep moving?” Sam stood, passing the snowball between his palms. “Then you’d better run.”

Realization dawned on Gabriel’s face and he grinned, turned and dashed into the trees. “Just _try_ and peg me, Winchester!” he called over his shoulder.

Sam laughed and gave chase.

—

Sunset found them making their way back to the car, wet and cold and beaming wide. They stopped back by the pond to grab the duffel and skates, and Gabriel gave a hearty shudder and cough.

“F-fuck,” he muttered, drawing his arms around himself. “My fingers are numb. Is that normal? I don’t think that’s normal.”

Sam gave a crooked smile, shrugged his outermost jacket off his shoulders. “It’s normal,” he said, wrapping the jacket around Gabriel. “But we should probably get you warmed up. Y’know, before you get sick.”

“Sick? I’m an Archangel of the motherfucking Lord, Sambrosia. I don’t get _sick.”_

“No, but humans do. And your vessel’s human, remember?”

Gabriel pressed himself flush against Sam’s side as they walked back through the trees. “Damn you and your good memory.”

“You love it.”

For answer, Gabriel snuggled closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: I combine three days and skip over two (to be done later) because I can't write at work. Seriously, guys, I work at a hotel as a receptionist. You CAN'T write there.


	13. Catching Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is whiny when he's sick. Is anyone really surprised?

Sam couldn’t help but feel that he’d brought this upon himself. Provoked some cosmic force, or somehow broadcast their snow day to the chaos god, or maybe it was just good old-fashioned irony. Either way, he woke the next morning to Gabriel curled up against his back, sniffling and shivering and running a fever.

Sam was sympathetic. Gabriel had never been sick before, after all, and he was still aching from the curse on top of it. That level of alien discomfort must’ve been a bitch to deal with. He rolled over so he was facing the archangel, ran a hand along Gabriel’s arm in slow, gentle rubs.

“Let’s go out, you said,” Gabriel coughed out. “You’ll have fun, you said.”

“You’ll get sick, I _also_ said.”

Gabriel’s lip curled. He sniffed, thick and guttural, then coughed again. Coughed wet, coughed ugly. Let out a weak groan and shuffled forward to bury his face in Sam’s shoulder. A line of spit left behind from his dragging lips.

“You suck.” The archangel’s words were muffled against Sam’s skin.

They lay there for a few minutes before Sam began to shift in the bed, trying to disentangle himself from Gabriel. Gabriel, of course, was having none of that.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled. Short fingers curled surprisingly tight in the fabric of the hunter’s shirt. “You’re comfy.”

“I’m just gonna go pee, Gabe.”

Gabriel only shook his head, his mouth and nose catching the strap of Sam’s tank top. “Don’t leave me. I’m sick.”

Sam pushed Gabriel off, gentle but firm. “I’ll be right back, calm down.”

“If I die of neglect I’m blaming you.”

He said this last while gathering a pillow into his arms, and Sam smiled. Didn’t think much of it. Gabriel was Gabriel, and Gabriel liked to whine.

—

As it turned out, sick Gabriel liked to whine a little too much. Sam relocated him to the library somewhere around noon, and the archangel made him carry him. Bridal style, with a snotty, weepy, sweaty creature clinging to his neck like a leech. He demanded more blankets, then fewer blankets—a hotter fire, a cold compress—soup, a puke bucket—the only thing he was firm on was Sam’s constant presence.

“I can’t bring the laptop in if you won’t let me leave the room,” Sam snapped. Gabriel wanted to watch a movie? Fine. But Gabriel was also draped across Sam’s lap and had protested with a phlegmy whimper when Sam so much as suggested he step outside Gabriel’s line of sight. 

“Okay, no movie then.” The archangel wrapped his arms around Sam’s middle and rubbed his forehead against the hunter’s belly. “Just stay, okay?”

“I’m not just gonna sit here and stoke the fire all day, Gabriel. Besides, you just said you were miserable and bored. And you get nasty when you’re miserable and bored.”

“I do _not.”_

“Five minutes ago, you told Dean to—and I quote—eat glass and shit blood.”

“He said I looked like crap!”

“Because you’re _sick.”_

Gabriel raised his head. He was not, it appeared, too ill to roll his eyes. “Whatever.” He sighed, squirmed and readjusted so just his head was in Sam’s lap now. “Read to me, United States of Samerica.”

Sam smirked. “You’re reaching now.”

“Shut up, I’m too sick to think.”

Sam smoothed hair away from Gabriel’s forehead, dropped a kiss on the clammy skin. Gabriel closed his eyes, lips flickering curved. Took a deep, rattling breath and let it out slow.

“I hate being like this, Sam,” he said quietly.

Sam looked at the dark, eldritch scabs on the archangel’s forearms, at the wan, waxy face beneath him. Wondered how horrible it must feel like to be so powerful, so immense, so _much,_ and to suddenly find yourself trapped. Stuck in too small, too paltry, too weak a body to properly contain what you were. He was lightning wearing dust and clay and, for the first time in his life, he was bound to the limitations of such a form. Sam thought about what Gabriel had said the other night, about humans being made of stardust and bright souls. Angels didn’t have souls—they were too vast for such light and little things. And without a soul, what was stardust but ash?

The hunter chewed his lip. Maybe that was why Gabriel couldn’t say he loved him. He wanted Sam, he needed Sam, but there was no way he could _love_ , truly love something so transient. A part of him knew that it was unfair to pin so much on something said while the archangel was ill, much less something said while he was cursed. The rest of him was caught wondering how the whatever-it-was between them could compare with Gabriel’s fleeting affair with Kali. A being as immortal as he, and yet his love for her couldn’t last forever, either.

Sam would be over in a blink, and Gabriel would remember him fondly.

The archangel opened his eyes and smiled. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but sweet. 
> 
> These are most likely going to be finished well after Christmas, but since I gave (made the mistake of giving) this a plot I do wanna finish it. Then it's back to Heaven, and on to other projects!


	14. Spending Time With Family/Holiday Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody likes fades to black, Miniatures, when will you learn?

Gabriel felt a little better the following day, and even healthier the next. On the morning of the third day, Sam woke to an empty bed and staggered out of his room to find Gabriel and Castiel milling about in the kitchen.

“Gabe?” Sam rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

The archangel jumped, startled. “Shit, Samsquatch! You’re fucking _sneaky_ when I’m not hypersensitive.”

“Heh, sorry. What, uh, what’re you doing?”

“Nothing.” He answered too quick. Sam quirked a brow at him.

Cas likewise turned an exasperated expression on Gabriel, who pointedly avoided his gaze. Castiel’s nose wrinkled slightly and he shrugged at Sam.

“Gabriel wants to le—”

The archangel nudged his brother sharp in the ribs, grinned broad and bright. “Go away, Sambo, we’re doing angel things.”

Sam blinked, snorted a laugh. “Okay, whatever. You come find me later though, all right?”

“Sure, kiddo.”

—

Later didn’t come as quickly as Sam had hoped. Not long after he left Gabriel and Cas in the kitchen, Dean burst into the library bearing evidence of a case in Michigan. Drowned bodies discovered under the ice of small lakes, showing signs of having been posthumously chewed by something decidedly un-piscine. Sam was surprised to find that he wasn’t tempted. The haunting in Hoisington had been close to home, an easy fix with two angels on their side, just a quick case to let off some steam. But Michigan was far away and flesh-eating lake monsters were even less fun to hunt while staving off hypothermia at the same time.

And it had been nice to pretend, even just for a little while, that they were just a normal family spending the holidays together. Two dysfunctional orphans, an ex-fallen angel, and the temporarily cursed Messenger of God, living in sin in a hole in Kansas. No more fucked up than the average bear. Sam didn’t want to break that spell. Not yet.

“It won’t take long if Cas zaps us there and back,” Dean whined when Sam told him no. “And if we—”

“Dean, I’m not leaving Gabriel alone. Not in his condition.”

“He’s fine, he can take care of himself.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Without his powers? I _know_ you know him better than that.”

Dean made a face. “Okay, fair enough. But… c’mon, Sam, I need this. _We_ need this. We gotta get some fucking fresh air, man—this… vacation or whatever, it’s great, but I gotta do _something_ before the damn cabin fever sets in, and I know you do too.”

“That’s just it, Dean. I don’t think I do.” Sam’s brow furrowed. “I’m not saying I wanna stay cooped up down here forever—I _don’t._ But I also don’t…” He shook his head. “I used to get antsy if I didn’t hunt for a while. I’d get that itch under my skin, that little voice in the back of my head telling me to go out and kill something, same as you. But lately… I dunno. I haven’t been feeling that itch as much these past few months. And now I’d almost like to think it’s gone altogether. I’m _happy_ like this, Dean. Just being here, with you and Cas and… and Gabriel. And I don’t wanna throw that away on some kelpie.”

“Kelpie?”

He shrugged. “That’s… what it sounds like. Bodies found in lakes, the victims were partially eaten after being drowned…”

“Sure, okay. Whatever. Look, Sammy.” Dean ran a hand over his face, rubbed at his eyes. “I get it, I really do. And I am freaking _thrilled_ that you wanna get out—hell, you know that’s what I want for you, too. But people are dying in Michigan, Sam. Right now. And I can’t just pretend that isn’t happening.”

Sam sighed. “I know.” And that was the sad, sick cherry on top right there—neither could he.

Castiel agreed to stay with Gabriel, swearing to come when they called for him to bring them home, or if they just needed help on the hunt. Gabriel only shrugged when Sam told him where they were going.

“It’ll give me time to finish… what I’m doing,” he said, giving Sam a light kiss. “Just don’t come back with a bite taken out of that pretty ass. I’ve grown attached.”

It turned out it _was_ a kelpie, and it turned out that said kelpie was a bitch to take down. Its weaknesses were standard—iron to wound, silver to kill—but Sam found that slitting the throat of an angry carnivorous horse as it tried to drown him in freezing water was no easy task. At long last Dean got it in the eye with a fire poker, giving Sam his window. He sliced the kelpie’s jugular with a silver blade, at which point it let out an unholy, bubbly shriek and dissolved into a mess of jellified gore in his hands.

They hauled each other onto shore, smelling of carnage, shivering and soaked heavy. And thank everything under the sun that Castiel came when they called because the edges of Sam’s world were starting to smudge, and he was fairly certain that his brother’s lips should not have been that shade of blue.

Fucking winter.

—

Sam lost consciousness somewhere between Cas’ hands on his shoulder and waking up in his bedroom. He was naked, enveloped in plush warmth, wrapped in a cocoon of pillows and thick blankets and an equally naked archangel tucked against his side. He blinked at Gabriel, who was peering up at him with wide eyes. Looking almost innocent, almost scared. 

“You dumb fucker,” he muttered. Nuzzled against Sam’s chest and gave him a squeeze. “I just wanted you out of the house, and you had to go and nearly get yourself killed.”

Sam brought a hand up to the nape of Gabriel’s neck, ran his fingers through the chestnut curls nestled there.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “But hey, we handled it fine. Cas got us out, and we stopped the kelpie.”

“Not good enough,” Gabriel growled. “New rule: no more life-threatening situations until this curse gets lifted and I can actually keep an eye on you idiots myself.”

Sam bristled. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“Can you?” Gabriel’s arms tightened around him. “If you _had_ died, it wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“I always come back.” He tried to keep his tone light, but it wavered.

“You always get _lucky.”_ The archangel’s voice cracked, so slight Sam almost missed it. “And the last time, you wouldn’t have come back at all if you’d had your say.”

Sam had almost forgotten he’d told Gabriel about that. About how close he’d come to letting go, how angry he’d been when he found out that Dean had brought him back against his will. When he’d first brought it up, Gabriel hadn’t known what to say, had filled the negative space with a hot mouth and eager hands. They hadn’t spoken of it since.

“I was…” Sam sighed. “I was tired, Gabriel. I was tired and I thought that coming back would just mean more of the same. Just blood and pain and losing everything I care about. I didn’t know…” He swallowed, smiled watery down at Gabriel. “You were one of those things once, y’know. I liked you when we first met. A lot. I figured it was just my own bad luck that you turned out to be our monster of the week.”

The archangel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, no, you’re not changing tack on me.” He rolled over so he was on top of Sam, his belly nestled soft and warm between Sam’s legs. He propped himself up on his elbows and fixed the hunter with a hard look. “Sam, I need you to promise me that you will do everything in your power to keep yourself alive as long as possible. I don’t care _what’s_ going on, or what you’re feeling—when the chips are down, you choose _life,_ you hear me?”

Sam tensed. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. I know that…” he swallowed. “I know it has to happen. I know how these stories end. But you… just promise me you’ll _try._ Please.”

Quiet, and Sam set his jaw. He wouldn’t mention the possibility of Heaven, couldn’t reasonably suggest _forever_ to a being for whom eternity was an actual potential lifespan. It was too much to ask. What Gabriel was asking for, on the other hand, was all Sam had to offer. One paltry human lifetime. 

He reached up and brushed a fringe of hair out of Gabriel’s eyes. Let his fingers comb through and down until he was cupping the side of the archangel’s face. “The other night… you said you needed me as long as you could have me,” he murmured.

Gabriel leaned into his touch. “Yes.” He said it like a prayer.

“Then you can have me,” Sam said, mouth quirking, “as long as you need me.”

Gabriel laughed, pressed a kiss to the inside of Sam’s wrist. “You know what you’re saying? You know what that means?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Hmm. See, I don’t think you do.” The archangel began to slide down the length of Sam’s body, lowering his mouth to his collarbone, his chest, his abdomen. “It means,” he said between kisses, “I get… to keep you… until… I’m… done with you.” Gabriel ran his hands along Sam’s sides, palmflat and smooth, painting him in shivers. Brought them to rest on the sharp curves of his hips. “It means I can have you until I don’t need you anymore.”

A soft, overbitten mouth was ghosting over the curls at the base of Sam’s twitching cock, and the hunter couldn’t think. “Sounds good,” he breathed, and Gabriel smirked.

“You sure you’re up for that, Sammy?” he asked. And if his kisses and his hands and the hum of his breath hadn’t already been enough to excite Sam, then the look he leveled at him now, all amber and fire and want, surely would’ve done the trick. “Because I plan on needing you for a very long time.”

Sam was hard and breathing heavy, and he loved Gabriel so much he couldn’t stand it. “Like I said,” he panted, “I’m yours.”

The archangel pulled back a little, smiling. “I’ll take it.”

Then he took the head of Sam’s cock into his mouth and sucked.

—

They emerged from Sam’s room sometime later, glowing and lax. Gabriel took his hand and led him towards the library, grinning like a little boy. Stopped before they turned the final corner and handed Sam what looked like a linen napkin.

“Blindfold time, bucko,” he said.

Sam tied it around his eyes without comment, mouth twitching. _This can only lead to good things._

Gabriel’s hands were on his hips then, and he guided the hunter along. Brought him to a halt and hooked a finger through the napkin’s knot.

“Okay, one, two, _three!”_

He tugged the blindfold away, and—

“SURPRISE!”

Dean and Castiel stood around the big table at the mouth of the library. The table itself was covered in a spread of food—platters of sandwiches and cookies and bowls of chips and fruit, an assortment of what looked like store-bought appetizers, and a large container of quite possibly the freshest-looking guacamole Sam had ever seen. Two large coolers full of both alcoholic and sugary drinks, and three pies—pumpkin, pecan, and what looked to be apple. Sam’s beat-up iPod and speaker sat on one of the bookshelves, and Dean, who already had a plate and a bottle of beer, pressed _play_ with a grin.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, little brother,” he said, lifting his bottle and taking a long sip. Castiel smiled at Sam, fastened to Dean’s side by the finger he had tucked through the man’s belt loop.

“How do you like it, Sam?” he asked, turning his grin onto his brother, who had sidled into view with a self-satisfied smirk. “Gabriel and I spent hours putting it together.”

“That’s what you guys were doing in the kitchen?” Sam laughed. “Is it… safe to eat?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “You wound me, Samsquatch. Cas… helped me. Dean’s been teaching him some tricks, apparently.”

“He doesn’t burn things anymore.” Dean nodded solemnly.

Castiel gave him a look, nudged him. “And now neither does Gabriel. As much.”

“What can I say? I try.”

“Gabe…” Sam wrapped an arm around the archangel’s shoulders, planted a kiss on the top of his head. “I love it. You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”

Gabriel looked up at him, smiled soft. “Again, I try. Now come on—you gotta try the shortbread, I actually think I got it this time.”

Sam followed him forward, and the four of them spent the rest of the day eating and chatting and listening to music. As if ghosts and kelpies were nothing but shadows, and they really could just live in sin in their hole in Kansas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I still doing these? I'm still doing these! 
> 
> Guys, you have no IDEA how badly I've been swamped this last little while. This chapter right here is the product of like, a week and a half of taking every little moment to write… five words at a time. I AM TRYING.


	15. Cafe/Early Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel begs and gets a treat.

Sam had neither seen nor heard of any place in Washington called _Page to Stage Café_ , but Gabriel insisted it was real. He showed him the website—a tiny old theatre transformed into a hipster hotspot, all exposed brick, gold paint, and faux-Edwardian cornices. The lobby was a café, the theatre proper a used bookstore and—on Friday nights, at least—the headquarters of the local spoken word scene. Apparently they boasted the best array of tarts in the continental USA, and apparently cursed archangels frequently hankered for tarts.

“Sure, later,” Sam said when Gabriel first broached the possibility of going. “Once the curse is lifted and it’s not so freaking cold. If any part of the Impala freezes, Dean’ll have my ass.”

“Cas can take us.”

“C’mon, Gabriel, it’s Cas’ holiday too. We can’t just turn him into our chauffeur.”

Gabriel glared at him. “Did he or did he not just ferry you and Dean to your almost-deaths?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Are you saying that murdering a magical horse-beast is more important than overpriced tarts?”

“People were dying, Gabriel.”

 _“I’m_ dying.”

“You’re cursed.”

“I _feel_ like I’m dying.”

By this point in the conversation, Gabriel had gone from sitting next to Sam to sitting _on_ Sam, crawling into his lap and nuzzling the crook of the taller man’s neck.

“C’mon.” His words were muffled, humming pleasant against Sam’s skin. “It can be his Christmas gift to me.”

Sam figured he was selfish for resisting. But a part of him—such a very large part—felt responsible for the archangel. Gabriel was cursed because Sam insisted he apologize to Dean. Gabriel, to whom Sam owed his life twice over. Thrice, if one were to count the fact that he made Sam believe he really could have that happy, impossible future he’d convinced himself was beyond his reach. Even if that future happened to be with a supernatural being of vast, unfathomable power instead of the Girl Next Door.

At any rate, so long as Gabriel was still cursed, Sam didn’t want him straying too far from the bunker. It was largely irrational, he knew, but every time he ran his hands over the scars still etched into Gabriel’s skin he felt sick. Castiel had once said that archangels were Heaven’s most fearsome weapons. But they were not invulnerable, and Gabriel had already died once. Sam wanted him where he knew he was safe, or at least within a certain radius of safe.

Then again, Gabriel was velvet and warmth and clay in his arms, and Sam was reminded that there was a difference between Gabriel asking for something and Gabriel begging for something. When Gabriel asked, he was gold and fire and a sharp edge sheathed in a wry smile. When Gabriel begged he was softer, his entire being blaring _please_ even if the word itself rarely made it past his lips. Archangels didn’t beg often, for the things they wanted were worth too much to risk on empathy. To beg was to be vulnerable, to trust that empathy was enough. Gabriel had been begging more often lately. Sam wasn’t sure whether that was because of the curse or something else, but goddammit did Gabriel know how to work him.

“Okay, we’ll ask Cas,” he said at last.

And so they did, and so there they were. Nestled in armchairs, sipping lattes across a lacquered wooden table and splitting a crème brûlée tart in the lobby of what was once the Gerald Kitt Theatre.

Sam had grumbled about the price of the tart—“Five dollars? It’s smaller than my _palm.”_ —but he had to admit that it was well worth the trip. He sucked another forkful off metal prongs, set the utensil down and glanced at Gabriel.

The archangel was reclined in his chair, legs tucked underneath him. His feet were tapping against the crushed velvet arm, his fingers drumming soft against the pink ceramic of his mug. He was staring over his shoulder, taking in the repurposed lobby in all its antique glory, soft lips quirking. Eyes gone buttery in the warm light of the café. Other than the fidgeting, wrung out of him by the itch of the curse, he looked completely peaceful.

Gabriel’s eyes flickered to Sam, who was now grinning at him rather stupidly. His mouth curved into a tentative smile of his own. 

“Whatcha looking at, Sambino?”

Sam shook his head, still grinning. “You’re kinda beautiful, you know.”

That was about as close as Sam figured he’d ever get to seeing an archangel blush. “Sap.”

Sam breathed a laugh. They sat in companionable silence a moment, before something occurred to the hunter and he shoved his hand in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I have something for you.”

“Christmas is in two days, don’t you wanna wait?”

“No, it’s okay.” Sam drew a small bundle, irregular and bound in giftwrap scraps, out of his pocket and held it out to Gabriel. “It’s not your _gift_ -gift, it’s… I saw it the other day and I thought of you, so,” he shrugged, “I bought it.”

“If it’s a ring,” Gabriel said gravely, taking the package, “I feel obligated to point out that I’m pretty sure that’s blasphemy. I mean, not any moreso than what you _already_ do with me, but… fair warning.”

Sam chuckled. “Just open it!”

He did, and lifted the present—a keychain charm in the shape of three pairs of golden wings. The largest was three inches wide, each of them boasting a unique wingspan, shade, and spread of feathers. Gabriel’s mouth opened ever so slightly, eyebrows bunching as he looked the charm over.

“I know it’s kinda silly,” Sam said, gaze falling to the mug clutched in his lap, “and I know you don’t even have, y’know, keys, but—”

“I love it.”

The hunter’s eyes snapped up, and Gabriel was looking at him like he’d just given him the answer to the meaning of life. Almost like he _was_ the answer. “Seriously, I love it.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s mouth split into an involuntary grin. “Really?”

“It’s silly, yeah, sure, but…” Gabriel shook his head. “It’s perfect.”

The look in his eyes twigged something in Sam’s brain, and he leaned forward. “Gabe… have you never been given a gift before?”

Gabriel paused. Laughed, though it was empty, and refused to meet Sam’s gaze. “Not unless you count pagan offerings. Which I don’t, ‘cause, y’know, they were only doing it so I didn’t ruin their year.”

He looked up at the hunter, and Sam’s struggle to find the right thing to say must’ve shown on his face, because Gabriel reached out and put a hand on his.

“It’s not a big deal, Sammy, seriously. But thank you. For taking my… gift-virginity.” Sam snorted. “You were very gentle. And, uh, speaking of…”

He leaned back and reached into his own jacket, pulled out an oblong wrapped package. “Same deal,” he said with a shrug, “saw it and thought of you.”

Sam beamed and took it. Fumbled with tape and tore at the wrapping paper to reveal—

“Shit!” He shoved the gift under his coat, heat rising in his cheeks. “Gabriel, what—we—we’re in _public,_ man!”

Gabriel flashed him a spectacular shit-eating grin and waved an airy hand. “Psh. You know I have no scruples, Sammoose.”

“You… there’s a difference between not caring what people think and,” he lowered his voice, “giving someone a _dildo_ in the middle of a café.”

“Ha! You said dildo.”

_“Gabriel.”_

The archangel cocked an eyebrow. “I thought we could take it back to the bunker and, uh, christen it.”

“You… gave me a dildo… in public.”

“I can bottom.”

Sam sighed, tightened his hand around the gift under his jacket. It was decently sized—he ran a thumb along its length. Felt veins.

“Um.” He was in _such_ trouble. “We could switch?”

Gabriel’s grin widened. “Sam, babe, you read my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These motherfuckers will be the death of me, I swear. Also, just in time for Speight Saturday, have some Gabriel's Pretty Face appreciation! It is gorgeous and I love it.


	16. S'mores, Christmas Eve Drinks, and Putting Up Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never leave Gabriel alone with your alcohol.

In retrospect, Sam probably shouldn’t have left Gabriel in charge of spiking the eggnog.

Christmas Eve night, the archangel hauled a massive bowl of it into the library, a package of plastic cups swung over his shoulder and a ladle between his teeth. His cheeks were already glowing, but Sam hardly noticed. Figured it was because they’d dimmed the lights, letting the fireplace illuminate the nest they’d built around it. Pulled the cushions off the couches, brought in quilts and pillows from their bedrooms and created a cozy nook in which to drink and eat and “make general merriment”, as Castiel had said.

The angel in question was sitting in the nest with Dean, laying out the ingredients for s’mores.

“It’s a holiday tradition,” Dean was saying, assembling one of the treats as he spoke. “See, you got your graham cracker, and then you add the chocolate… roasted marshmallow on top—melts the chocolate a bit—and topped off with another cracker. It’s basically a tiny, sugary sandwich. Got it?”

Cas nodded absently, gaze fixed sleepy and fond on Dean. Sam wondered if he’d heard a word the hunter had just said.

The ‘nog bowl sloshed as Gabriel set it down next to the s’mores fixings. He flopped down on the pile of bedding to Sam’s left.

“Hey there, Samonella.” He flashed a smile that was all dimple. Snuggled tight against the younger Winchester’s side.

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “You’re so romantic.”           

The archangel giggled. His eyes lit up then, and he flung himself across Sam’s legs, scrambling for the bag of marshmallows. Plucked two from the bag and shoved them in his mouth. 

“Dude!” Dean yelped, and snatched the bag out of Gabriel’s reach. “Not for you.”

“Don’ harsh m’ buzz,” Gabriel said, speaking around the gelatin.

Sam laughed, rubbed the small of Gabriel’s back.

They impaled marshmallows on wood-handled kebab skewers and began roasting them on the fire. Gabriel poured himself a glass of eggnog. Downed it, poured another. Then another.

By the time the others had their s’mores arranged, the archangel was blowing out the flames on his blackened marshmallow. He stared at its charred remains a moment, shrugged, and slurped the sticky mess off the end of the skewer. Winced as his tongue grazed hot metal.

“Ouch! Ow, that _hurt.”_ He swallowed the marshmallow and stuck out his tongue, eyes crossing as he attempted to examine it. He turned to Sam. “Thammy, kith i’ be’er.”

Sam wrinkled his nose at the burst of sour breath wafting from Gabriel’s mouth. “Uh, no. _Jeez,_ Gabe, how much booze did you put in the eggnog?”

Gabriel looked contemplative. “Juth th’ tha—” he retracted his tongue and cleared his throat. “Same as I always do.”

Dean shuffled towards them, reached over and grabbed Gabriel’s glass. Took a sip and recoiled, sputtering.

“Holy _shit.”_ He blinked, handed Sam the glass.

The younger Winchester sniffed the ‘nog, made a face. “Okay, that’s not spiked eggnog anymore. That’s just… alcohol with eggnog in it. Gabe,” he rounded on the archangel, pink-faced and grinning goofy up at him, “that’s how much you _usually put in?”_

Gabriel nodded, giggled. Sam joined him.

“Oh my god,” Sam chuckled, “you are so _drunk._ ”

The archangel reached out and tapped Sam’s nose, his finger swiping across the nostril to land somewhere left of the hunter’s face. Thus unbalanced, he fell into Sam’s lap and stayed there. “Yuuup,” he drawled. “You get the gold star, Sa… Sa—um. Sam… blin Entertainment.”

Sam laughed again and ran a hand through Gabriel’s hair. The archangel’s eyes fluttered closed, mouth spreading into a slow, content smile.

“I suppose he’s not very good at determining how much alcohol a human body can withstand,” Castiel said, lips twitching.

“Eh, at least he’s a happy drunk.” Dean shrugged.

“It would appear he’s more of a sleepy drunk.”

“Semantics, Cas.”

They stayed like that a while longer, the three of them continuing to make and devour their s’mores as Gabriel snuggled in Sam’s lap. At long last, Dean and Castiel decided to shuffle off to bed. They took the foodstuffs and eggnog with them, insisting that Sam had his hands full with the archangel draped across his legs. Sam was inclined to agree.

He brushed his knuckles against Gabriel’s cheek. “Hey, Gabe,” he murmured. “Time to get up. We gotta get you to bed.”

“Mmm…” Gabriel squirmed in his lap, rolled so he was looking up at Sam. “Don’ wanna. ‘M comfy.”

“No, c’mon, I have to put up your Christmas gift, and I can’t do that with you on me. Let’s go… I’ll get you some water first, okay?”

Gabriel groaned. “Fiiiine. Help me up, Sammoose.”

Sam did, hooking his hands under the archangel’s armpits and hoisting him to his feet, supporting him as they stumbled towards the kitchen and the promise of hydration.

“Sam,” Gabriel murmured, wiping his mouth on the hunter’s shirt as they reached the threshold of the kitchen. “So good, Sam, y’r so… nice…”

“All right.” Sam sat him down at the counter and poured him a tall glass of water. “You’re sweet, Gabriel. Drink up.”

When the glass was empty, Gabriel rubbed his hands over his eyes. “S’more?”

“Little bit, yeah.” Sam poured out another glass. “Nurse this one though, yeah? Take it slow, or you’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”

“Fuckin’ fragile bodies.”

“Yeah, we’re real delicate flowers. Here you go.”

The quiet was comfortable, punctuated by little slurps as Gabriel sipped his water. After a couple of minutes, he murmured, “You treat me like you love me, sometimes.”

Sam’s breath hitched. His heart thudded loud and he felt as if his gut had just been scraped hollow. Fuck, his tongue was thick. Thick and dull as cotton. Best try for a laugh, if he could barely speak.

“Only sometimes? Hell, that’s not enough, then, is it?”

Gabriel lifted his head sharply, and his eyes were wide. “Sam… ” he began, but what started as a pause spread into silence, and whatever he’d wanted to say was swallowed by it.

It spread until Sam was choking on it.

At last his fingers twitched, and he shook his head, more to clear it than anything else. Gabriel was finished with his water, and it was time to get him to bed.

—

Sam put Gabriel’s gift under the tree while the archangel lay on his bed, still drowsy with alcohol. He gnawed at his thumbnail as he straightened, took in the sight of the bulky package. It was badly wrapped, but that was to be expected from a man who hadn’t had to wrap a gift in years. The contents were nothing special. Symbolic more than anything else, and Sam could only pray that he wouldn’t look _completely_ stupid when Gabriel saw them.

But hopefully— _hopefully—_ the gift would be enough to get his message across.  Maybe this time Gabriel would say something back.

Maybe this time Gabriel would stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, so writers' block's a real bitch, huh? Almost done though! NEARLY THERE FRIENDS.


	17. Christmas Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it ends

A year ago, if someone had told Sam that the highlight of his year would be the Christmas morning he spent with the Archangel Gabriel, a box of sex toys, and dangerous weaponry, he would’ve been severely concerned for that someone’s sanity. Now he could only marvel at the fact that he was lucky enough to have one such morning. There was no way he deserved it, after all.

He woke to the warm press of Gabriel at his side, the archangel’s fingers tracing absent patterns on Sam’s chest. Gabriel glanced up as Sam stirred, mouth twitching as he shimmied up and pressed a kiss to the hunter’s jaw.

“I was gonna have a mini-light show in here,” he murmured, burying his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, “and blast carols and Elvis and Crosby from every vent. There was gonna be a gingerbread replica of the bunker in the kitchen, and all the Christmassy snacks you could possibly think of. Then I was gonna give you your gift and it was gonna be awesome and you were gonna fuck me under the tree.”

Sam snorted. “Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable?”

“It’s the thought that counts. Well, in this case, it’s the blasphemy that counts.”

“Mm…” Sam dropped his lips to Gabriel’s hair. “Maybe we find some way to blaspheme that doesn’t involve getting pine needles in our underwear?”

“Spoilsport.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Gabriel sat up and stretched with a moan. Sam loved the way his face scrunched when he did that, the flash of dimple, the way his undershirt rode up to expose the soft curve of his belly. The marks still etched across his forearms stood out in sharp relief against the gold-brushed cream of his skin, and though the hunter ached to know the chaos god’s curse was still in effect, the sigils did naught to mar Gabriel’s striking brand of beauty. Sam smiled and reached out, laced his fingers through the curls at the base of the archangel’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

“Seriously,” he said when they broke for air, resting his forehead against Gabriel’s. “I think this is… yeah, this is the first time I’ve woken up next to someone on Christmas in over ten years. I haven’t since… not since Jess.”

Gabriel swallowed hard. “Well. Who better to break your streak with than the angel who practically delivered Jesus?” He smiled, laughed a little nervous.

Sam brought his hand from behind Gabriel’s neck to run gentle across his cheek, let his thumb brush against the archangel’s lips. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said. “Real glad, Gabe.”

“Yeah, well.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “Feeling’s mutual, Gigantor.”

They kissed again. The moment stretched out like honey, slow and sweet. Sam pulled off, sucking Gabriel’s bottom lip to catch between his teeth a second before he loosed it. The archangel let out a needy whine as his lover began to get out of bed.

“Aw, c’mon, Sam! It’s Christmas, we have to do the...” he gestured widely, “celebratory… fornication.”

“Oh, we will.” Sam flashed a grin as he tugged a pair of sweatpants over his boxers. “We most _definitely_ will. But later, okay? Presents first.”

“Right.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, and followed Sam to his feet. “I forgot. Baby Jesus has a birthday and since you all got that Holy Spark biz you figure everybody deserves a prize.”

“Aw.” Sam pouted, cocked his head. “What happened to bright and beautiful souls?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. He made his way towards Sam, reached over and pinched the hunter’s ass with a smirk. “I never said you _didn’t_ deserve it.”

—

Dean and Castiel were already by the tree, kneeling before it with half-wrapped gifts in their laps and their mouths thoroughly occupied with one another. Sam was glad they’d taken their moment, glad they’d had a chance to be alone.

He and Gabriel took their places beside them. The four of them exchanged Merry Christmases, and then the archangel clapped his hands together. Eyes gleamed eager as he asked—“So whatcha get me?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be trying for humble?” Dean asked dryly.

Gabriel waved a hand. “It’s my first Christmas with presents, Deano, I’m allowed to be greedy.”

Sam was pleased by the reaction to his gifts—Dean slugged him on the shoulder in thanks for the watch and whisky. Castiel beamed at the books, though his expression faltered when he cracked open _Fellowship_ and saw just how tiny the font was.

“This is an… _extremely_ long novel,” he murmured as he thumbed through, and Sam was certain he’d never seen Cas squint quite so hard. And that was saying something. He bit back a grin, and when he caught sight of Gabriel he saw that the archangel was doing the same.

Dean and Castiel had gone in on joint gifts. A four-volume encyclopedia of Mesoamerican folklore for Sam—“I remembered you saying the Men of Letters were lacking in that area,” Cas said—and a vintage copy of the record _Cheap Thrills_ for Gabriel, its sleeve signed by Janis Joplin.

“Ah, she was a sweet kid,” Gabriel said, running his fingers over the album in his lap. Gave a soft smile and placed it gently on the floor next to him. “How the hell did you guys get your hands on _that?”_

Dean shrugged, smirked. “I have my ways.”

“And they are much appreciated. So much so that I,” Gabriel leaned forward and patted the second to last present under the tree with the flat of his palm, “got the two of you something _extra_ special this year.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to narrow his eyes. He peeled off the wrapping paper to reveal an unsealed cardboard box—he opened the flaps, looked in, and promptly turned a horrifically unnatural shade of red.

“Dude!”

“What, you don’t like it?”

_“Dude!”_

Castiel peered into the box, and his eyes widened. “Gabriel, that’s hardly appropriate…”

“What? A guy can’t show some support for his brother and his brother’s mouthy little shit of a boyfriend?”

Sam frowned and leaned over to look inside the box himself. His gaze was met by a plethora of sex toys—plugs and rings and rope, fuzzy things and rubber things, panties and cuffs and a veritable gaggle of dildos of every shape, size, and colour imaginable. On top were two twelve-packs of batteries and a note that simply read, _Go crazy._

“Oh my god,” he yelped. “Was _this_ when you got the—?” He cut himself off, but Dean was already eyeing him with the beginnings of a grin tugging the corners of his mouth.

“When he got the _what_?”

Suddenly Sam’s neck was uncomfortably hot. “Nothing.”

“No, no, c’mon, man, tell us. What’d he get you?”

 _“Nothing,_ Dean!”

Dean stared at him a moment, then blinked and shook his head. “No, you’re right, I don’t wanna know. _So!”_ He pointed at Gabriel. “You’re disgusting, and we have one more thingy to open.”

“Yes!” Sam grinned. “Yeah, Gabriel, go open it.”

“For me?” Gabriel put a hand over his heart. “Oh, Sammy, I’m touched.”

He crawled to the gift on his knees and tore the paper away. Frowned at the contents and glanced over at Sam with a cocked eyebrow.

“Not that I’m not grateful,” he said slowly, “but… I don’t think anyone in the history of time has given an archangel a dresser drawer before.” He ran a hand across the rich mahogany top of the drawer in question. “Nice finish, though.”

Sam stood and walked towards him. Crouched, took Gabriel’s hands in his and straightened, pulling Gabriel to his feet.

“I,” he said, “got you this to put next to my bed. I… I know you don’t have any stuff, technically, and you don’t really need it, but…” he cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, a gesture. I want you to feel at home here, with us. With me. ‘Cause it sure as hell doesn’t feel like home when you’re not around.”

Gabriel’s hands tightened in his grip, and the archangel was looking at him like… well. Like he’d seen the face of God.

 _“Sam,”_ he whispered.

Dean shot to his feet. “Uh, Cas, you wanna gimmie a hand with this box?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

With their respective brothers (and their brothers’ new toys) gone, Sam and Gabriel exchanged nervous smiles. Dropped each other’s hands so fast Sam wasn’t sure which of them had initiated the break. He rubbed the back of his neck and fixed his eyes on the ground.

“I, uh…” he let out a dry laugh. “I’m sorry, that was really freaking sappy, I know. But I…”

“Sam.”

He looked up, saw Gabriel holding another oblong package in his hands. _Where the fuck was he hiding that?_

“What—?”

“Just open it.” If Sam hadn’t known better, he would’ve said that the archangel looked almost frightened as he took the package. Began to unwrap it slowly, never taking his eyes off of Gabriel.

Then the wrappings fell away and Sam couldn’t breathe.

Sitting cool and heavy in his hands was an archangel blade.

“Y-you…” he stammered, “I—wha…”

“It’s mine,” Gabriel said quietly. “For real. It’s a gesture, too.” He stepped forward and closed Sam’s fingers around the blade, keeping his eye trained on their hands and the bolt of silver beneath. “I’m forever, Sam. Unless this thing or something like it kills me again, my life’s going to last until long after this world has crumbled away into rubble and ash. And I want you to have it, because I trust you with it.”

“Your blade?”

“My life.” Gabriel met his eye. “I love you, Sam.”

In that moment, it was as if every dark and ugly thing about them was suddenly laid bare, raw and exposed. They pushed each other, pushed at the sore spots. Enabled each other, let each other get away with murder and then some. They were mismatched, they were starcrossed, they were sick and broken and all kinds of profane. And they were oh so perfect.

Sam gripped the angel blade tight in one hand, brought the other around the back of Gabriel’s head and pulled him into a deep kiss. Tasted sugar and metal and smoke, and knew he was home.

—

Sam watches as he and Gabriel break apart, as the marks fade from Gabriel’s forearms. Telling Sam how he felt had been a prime example of an “act of genuine vulnerability”, it appeared—the curse was lifted, and Gabriel had proceeded to snap his fingers and make good on his promise of that light show. Then Sam had made good on his promise of celebratory fornication, and Dean and Castiel each made solemn vows to never leave their brothers alone with Christmas wreaths again.

Sam watches, and Sam smiles. It’s Christmas Day on Earth right now—probably, if his calendar is correct. The new Heaven that has been built in the wake of the old regime is miles better than the one that existed prior, but new magic is regrettably buggy. Sam makes a mental note to check his calendar against Dean’s next time he visits.

By his count it’s been twenty Earth years since his last live Christmas. Sixty since that first he’d spent with Gabriel. He misses it, sometimes. Misses the particular give of real flesh, the grime and sweat and little discomforts that distinguish life on Earth from life eternal.

“Hey there, Samsquatch.”

Of course, he doesn’t have to miss it all.

He turns and catches an armful of archangel.

This happens, sometimes. He’ll make a turn somewhere in his Heaven and see Gabriel lounging about in one of Sam’s old haunts, or one of the newer rooms, or some completely fanciful location sprung straight out of Gabriel’s head. Sometimes it’s nothing but a catch-up and a hurried peck, other times they’re together for weeks by an Earth clock. Gabriel leaves often, but he always comes back. Always.

When he’d first died and begun exploring his corner of Heaven, Sam hadn’t known what to expect from Gabriel. He enjoyed the fact that the powers that be had so generously allowed him to return to his thirty-year-old appearance. He adored the fact that he could visit Dean’s Heaven, and that of their parents and Bobby and everyone else they’d lost. He was nearly brought to tears by the fact that Castiel had come to visit him. But at first there’d been no sign of the archangel. Not a word, not a whisper.

Gabriel claimed a fear of what he’d find when he finally came for Sam. He’d gotten a week of cold shoulders for that. But soon thereafter Sam had learned that when Gabriel said forever, the motherfucker _meant_ it.

They belong to each other. In every world imaginable.

Now Gabriel trails kisses up Sam’s throat and yes, that is _every_ bit as good in Heaven as it was on Earth. Their mouths meet, plush and wet. Sam inhales the scent of archangel, that crackle of sweet iron that is so much stronger here. His fingers tangle in Gabriel’s hair and he is oh so very glad that Gabriel is able to maintain his Trickster form in Heaven. Because an eternity without those clever, wicked lips would have been straight up cruel and unusual.

 They don’t need to come up for air, but telepathy lacks the punch of speaking aloud, Sam thinks. “I missed you,” he says.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I was gone two days. Count ‘em, kiddo.”

“Still.”

“Sap.” Gabriel smiles affectionately, pulls away. “So. These reels again, huh? Don’t you ever get tired of watching your own ugly mug?”

Sam laughs. “This was it, y’know. My happiest Christmas.”

“And yet you had forty more afterwards. Sad to say, you peaked early.”

“Not at all. It was the first one where you were there.”

“Again, _forty more,_ Sarmadillo.”

“What, am I not allowed to treasure the memory of the first time you said you loved me?”

Gabriel shrugs. Sam eyes him a moment, then asks: “Why then?”

“Why then what?”

“Why’d you tell me then? That you loved me.”

The archangel frowns. “There you go again— _loved._ Past tense. I still do, y’know.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Gabriel sighs and reaches forward, takes Sam’s face in his hands. “Felt like the right time,” he says, letting his thumbs graze across Sam’s cheek. “And… I dunno. First Christmas with the man I love… figured I should get him something special if I intended to keep him forever.”

Sam brings his own hands up to cover Gabriel’s. “Well. I’d say it worked.”

Gabriel laughs. “Guess I got you, Sammy.”

“Yeah. Guess you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe this is the first time I've ever finished a chaptered fic? Because it is and I'm actually so fucking excited by that. 
> 
> On that note - it's only most of a month later, right? That's not TOO bad, right? RIGHT? Hehe *sobs* 
> 
> Thank you so much to y'all who've been reading - every comment and kudos warms the cockles of my withered apple of a heart. You're blessings, the lot of ya.
> 
> Extra special shout-out to my bro and beta, GreyMichaela, for holding my hand. MWAH!


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